


Little Feet

by Giggles96



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Bonding, Dad!Harvey, Domestic Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I'm tagging Jellybean as a supporting character, Jellybean, Kid Fic, Kidfic, Mike is a little shit, Poor Harvey, Protective Harvey, Sleepy Cuddles, Toddler!Mike, because dammit he deserves it, cuteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Harvey is so unqualified, it’s not even funny. He’s in a position of responsibility unlike anything else, ever. Nothing compares to this…It’s the crash course in parenting he never envisioned himself taking. Yet…he is.’ </p>
<p>A sweet, light-hearted take on my story Can't Go Back.  Teeny toddler AU. </p>
<p>/// Can be read as a standalone.///</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Push the Limits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaelige](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelige/gifts), [Wendyam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wendyam76/gifts).



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**PROLOGUE:**

Push the Limits

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**Summary:** 'Harvey is so unqualified, it's not even funny. He's in a position of responsibility unlike anything else, ever. Nothing compares to this…It's the crash course in parenting he never envisioned himself taking. Yet…he is.' A sweet, light-hearted take on my story Can't Go Back. Teeny toddler AU. Can be read as a standalone. 1/10 approx.

 **A/N:** So...I've finally caved and written a story that I'm pretty sure only me and my greedy little heart wanted. After all the difficulties I've been having lately, it was important for me to have something light and fluffy to focus on. Thus, this little fic was born. I have another five chapters mostly written, though they - and the story on a whole - won't be as long as others in the past (i.e. its predecessor). They'll be posted regularly over the next few weeks, so stay tuned and please do be generous with the reviews. I am so grateful for all of you lovely readers who have taken the time to leave one. Never doubt how much they mean to me.

So - without further ado...in light of the glorious end of hiatus, and, if, like me, you're craving a little sweetness, here we go...

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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* * *

It was his mistake.

A stupid mistake, beyond a doubt. And when it all came crashing down, it came down hard. It didn't take long.

His whole world was shot to hell and now he's scrambling to salvage it, only he's not sure how exactly to accomplish that; if such a feat is possible without a heck of a lotta good fortune and arduous labour on his end. But right now he'd be foolish to fixate on the likelihood of failing.

A milky, salmon pink colours the skies. Heart pumping, leaves rustling, brushwood snapping underfoot as Harvey pounds on the pavement past fellow runners, blithe dog-walkers, and largely stripped bushes, and wonders: _where did it all go wrong?_

It's his first time running alone in weeks. What was before a standard practice now feels alien, for sure, and unequivocally unwelcome. He would give anything not be running solo right now. To have his sidekick back where he belongs - by his side. Or, more accurately, held tightly in his arms.

The dying flame of the sun presses down on him, pushing him harder and harder, faster and faster - puffing out jagged, impoverished pants and ramming home that deafening _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock that seems to swallow his every thought almost before Harvey even has a chance to form it.

Sunshine receding, disappearing, with the shadows lengthening to snag his ankles, all Harvey can think is how quickly he's running out of time.

The clock is _tick, tick, ticking._

And he's afraid of what'll happen once it stops.

The wind whips around his ears, water blotches his vision, his lips are numb and the sound of the air hissing between his teeth makes it impossible to forget the formidable clench of his jowl, or the fury that keeps it sealed to his jaw.

Such intensity of emotion, he would have thought, is not so foreign for him - given his competitiveness and concentrated passion for cars, sports, winning, and his unwavering pursuit of pleasure - but Harvey was wholly unprepared for the flood of guilt and near-crippling terror that assaults him now. It's more than enough to keep him off balance and potentially hinder his shot at success.

Luckily, Harvey's been taking this route for years and could map it out in his sleep, so he has no problems adhering to his regular course. He's determined not to let something as remiss as needless distraction knock him off his game.

By this point, his legs should feel like lead, but they carry on through what must be muscle memory alone. For that, if nothing else, Harvey feels they deserve break, but he doesn't have the luxury of stopping for a little respite, or pausing to rehydrate. He'll press on in spite it.

Weariness tugs at his eyelids and the tendons in his feet forge ahead with rising strain. As the pressure of getting from _here_ to _there_ , A to B, easy as _1,2,3_ , grows more and more imperative, Harvey's agitation and smouldering over-protectiveness become an ever-more compelling force to be reckoned with.

He's always been a strong-minded man to begin with, but Mike is - by far - the greatest incentive he's ever had in his life, though the results of such stubborn perseverance certainly fall a tad short of positive. If he'd had his pedometer on him to keep track, he wouldn't be surprised to learn he's beaten his previous standing record twice over.

Thrusting against his insides is a deep, glacial burn as Harvey's famished lungs work overtime to gulp down what little air he has to offer and a shuddering cramp works its way across his torso. Yet, neither of which slow him down in the least.

Any whisper of breathing technique has gone out the window, along with his ingrained, natural tempo and any and all trace of basic common sense.

His stride is all over the place, dreadfully sloppy and thoroughly uneven as the hard thwack of his soles thunders along the asphalt. In the back of his mind, Harvey's inner running-guru tsks at him to relax his fists, slacken the solid set of his shoulders, focus on the ease of his gait and don't forget to keep his weight centred.

Years of experience and past mishaps are screaming at him that this is how people mess up; this is when people get hurt. It goes against every day he's spent hiding a limp at work, every pad of gauze slapped over another pesky blister, every icepack melting over a swollen ankle. Everything he's done, everything he's learnt - all of that has been wiped clean in an instant, all because somewhere out there there's a scared, weepy Mike and there's no way in hell he's leaving him out here alone for one more goddamn second than he absolutely has to.

Only an idiot would go running clad in the kind of classy business attire appropriate for the likes of Wall Street and week after week of endless meetings. But if there's one thing this evening has proved, it's that he must be the biggest idiot on the planet, so Harvey'll let that one slide, considering.

There are way more urgent matters to attend to than the smarting friction triggered by the collar of his shirt rubbing against his neck, or the grey flannel pants chafing his thighs, flapping around his calves and catching on the heel of his shoes - the fine, Italian leather shoes, which, for the record, are no match for his usual comfy sneakers.

Where usually he would be blessed with the luxury of luminous-lined, breathable fibres, now Harvey's stuck with ever-dampening pit stains and cotton sticking to his skin. He'd forgotten what a pain in the ass something as fundamental to the human experience as sweat can be, without the benefits of advanced technology and an unfairly disproportionate amount of money for an incredibly selfish, single guy of his age.

But, as fanciful as it may sound at first, there are at least ten other, more pressing concerns weighing on the senior partner in that moment than how stupid he must look running in such colossally inappropriate clothing. For once, Harvey has something - _someone_ \- a helluva lot more important to prioritise over work and keeping up appearances. He'd stake his entire reputation on it.

He'd stake his entire reputation on Mike.

Has done a thousand times, right from the beginning, for a million different reasons. Excuses and borderline delusions that just don't, well - just don't cut it anymore.

He might possibly be the single most pathetic excuse for a guardian in the universe, but there's no denying the changes wrought by the experience, or the things he's felt along the way. Harvey has undergone a drastic transformation in recent weeks - hell, you could say overnight - and he simply can't imagine a better place to be than lounging across his leather couch, scared to twitch, scared to breathe, in fear of disturbing the sleepy little boy tucked beneath his chin.

But of course, self-professed bonehead that he is, Harvey just had to go and screw all that shit up.

Keeping his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary, Harvey's breath catches with each false alarm and unidentified object or darkened profile that, more often that not, turns out to be nothing more than a young sapling, or some weird rock. Not for the first time, he replays the events of this afternoon and wonders what he could have done differently, what on earth possessed him, why did it all have to come to this, and Harvey's never considered himself a failure or anything of the sort, but right then, it's all he can think about.

He failed.

Harvey failed, and now Mike's gone, and it's all his fault.

Throat closing up, eyes stinging and chest aching for a whole other reason, he slows to a brisk jog, bends over, hands on his knees, breath misting in the bitter chill, panting harshly and begging, _please_. Please, let Mike be okay. Please don't take him away.

_What the hell am I doing?_

What the hell has he done?

_I rushed into it, and now I'm seriously wondering if I even want this._

Yes, he wants it. Of course he wants it! It's Mike. He wants the whole damn lot, of course he does. All that dumb, soppy shit that comes with raising such a loveable tot.

_I don't even like children._

No. He doesn't.

But he loves him.

_This was a mistake._

He screwed up. He screwed up real bad, and if he doesn't fix this…if he can't make this right…

Harvey doesn't know if he could ever forgive himself.

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_Thanks for reading._

_If this feels repetitive, I apologise. I'll do my best to put a different spin on things to keep it fresh, switch it up a bit or whatever, but, well, similarities will be made. That's inevitable. I hope you enjoyed this, all the same. I'm aware this is more of a teaser than an actual beginning to the story, but I promise you, you won't have to wait long for the official first chapter._


	2. Down the Rabbithole

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**CHAPTER ONE:**

Down the Rabbit-Hole

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**A/N:** It's been pointed out to me that I have so far failed to deliver on my initial promise of fluff. Well, fear not, dear readers. This chapter is pretty terrible, but the next one's much better, I promise, and has tons of the stuff, so try not to be too disappointed. In fact, if you've read Can't Go Back, feel free to skip this one (if you haven't, I'd recommend doing so, though it's not strictly necessary). You don't miss much. Guy gets turned into toddler, angst runs amuck—boom. Done. Onto the next one?

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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_Before:_

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"I'm up! I'm up!"

Smoothing his tousled, gloriously mussed up hair and wiping at the drool drying at the corner of his lips, Mike blinks fuzzily and gives himself a minute to get his bearings, spinning around in his chair to face his straight-faced boss.

Harvey rolls his eyes.

He angles his head and jerks his chin. "Come with me."

Without warning, the so-totally-done-with-Mike's-shit, fed up corporate attorney grabs the younger man's elbow and wrenches him up, _up_ , and up still. _Phew_ , it is dizzy up here.

Mike lurches to his feet and sways for a second, totally disorientated. He glances around, dazed and blinking owlishly, then snags his jacket from the back of his chair and grips it loosely as he finds himself being yanked by the collar away from his desk and towed down the narrow strip of carpet between associates' cubicles.

"Where are we going?" he demands between curt breathes, simultaneously squinting out of one eye and attempting to squash down a relentless yawn, which is harder than it looks, okay? So don't judge him. Okay, _try_ not to judge him.

"You'll see."

With Harvey dragging him all the way, Mike stumbles behind his boss through the bullpen and along the corridor, and frowns as they pass an amused-looking Donna, who merely laughs at his dumb, stupefied expression.

When he sees what his boss has planned, however, Mike immediately blanches.

"Harvey, no —" he begins, backing away, only to knock into the man's shoulder.

"Lie down," he says unflinchingly. "That's an order. We've got a huge meeting with a client this afternoon and I don't want you screwing it up."

"You can't be serious. What did I say? No more bullying people into taking naps like a damn presch—"

Harvey cuts off his rant by shoving him onto the couch.

Mike lands with a bounce, knees knocking together as his traitorous body relaxes on impulse. "But I'm all fuelled up on redbull and M&M's —"

"That is not a sustainable diet, Mike. You're not in high school anymore. Do I need to go over ninth grade biology with you again?"

"You and Donna need to quit conspiring against me," Mike moans, pouting in an unapologetically childish manner. "You'll give a guy a complex if you keep this up. If I had a therapist, which I don't, by the way, 'cause I can't afford it, least not a decent one, anyway, I'd blame all of my problems on you two, you know. Every single one. And I bet they wouldn't fault me for it, either. Even all the jacked up shit I did before I met you. Because it was like I _knew_ I was going to. And you were gonna fuck me up. Do you understand? I have a _lifetime_ of trust issues thanks to you - you betrayers —"

Then it's like Donna can't take it any longer and she starts cackling down the intercom, wiping tears from her eyes, where they'd already begun to water under the strain of trying to hold it all in.

Even Harvey's smiling. His real smile. The one that twinkles in his eyes, like little specks of stars. Mike sits up with renewed purpose. He needs to tell him about the stars in his eyes—

"Yeah, yeah," Harvey mutters, shaking his head at him. "We get it. You're a broke ex-druggie, with an infuriating personality, all because I refuse to let you continue to work after forty hours of sleep-deprivation without a break. Makes sense."

"It _does_. My therapist says so."

"The imaginary one."

" _Yes_."

"That you got," Harvey says slowly. "Because of me." He's struggling not to explode with laughter, Mike can tell. And he doesn't appreciate it.

Mike clasps his hands together and shakes them up in the air, swaying once more. " _Now_ you're getting it."

"R-right," he coughs, swallowing another snicker, but it breaks free despite his best efforts in the form of a wide, shit-eating grin. "Gotcha."

"You guys are mean," Mike huffs, refraining from informing them that his _therapist_ will be hearing all about this later…As soon as he hires one. He'll get right on that. Later. So _suck it, losers._

Mike realises he's been absentmindedly fiddling with the blanket and rubs his thumb over it for a second, considering its juvenile print (cars and trucks? Seriously?) and heavenly softness, before heaving his lolling head off the back of the couch to peer more closely at it. And possibly see if it smells as soft as it feels.

"Did you buy this?" he questions, bafflement overcoming his sense of propriety as he snaps his eyes up to glance at Harvey. Pshaw—who's he trying to kid? What sense of propriety?

"Might have," his boss evasively replies, not looking at him. He simply rips the blanket out of the gentle care of Mike's wandering hands and unfurls it across his flaccid, lethargic form. "Are you going to be good now?"

"Harvey, listen, man, I appreciate it, but I'm fine, really—"

His boss smirks. "Sure, you are, kid. Sure." He tucks the blanket around him and steps back to point a stern finger at his face. "Down. Now."

Finished with arguing, Mike flops back with a groan and snuggles down deeper, getting comfortable.

Mostly because he is actually very tired, and, besides…he was running out of M&M's, anyway.

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"Look, I'm sorry I got all rash and brash, and went, like, all ill-advisedly off-script or whatever, but _in my defence…_ it seemed right at the time."

"Save it," the senior partner growls. "The meeting was a disaster. You screwed up, and, as per usual, I'm the one who's going to have to go crawling back to Dr. Slater on my hands and knees later to smooth things over. When are you gonna realise that I don't dole out orders just for the sheer heck of it? That those orders you so carelessly disregard might actually _mean_ something?"

"Yeeeaaaah. 'Bout that. Listen, I understand that sometimes I do rash and brash shit, like knock over some unidentified substances and get us kicked out of a whacky scient—" At Harvey's glower, he swiftly changes tracks. "— _client's_ lab, who was freaking out over _nothing_ , in my opinion. And, hey, paying attention to where I'm going really isn't my thing, let's not pretend otherwise, so I'll admit I'm at least partly at fault here—"

"You are entirely at fault. This was literally all of your fault. _Nobody_ else's." Harvey smears a hand across his mouth and breathes deeply. "I _told_ you, you needed sleep. Provided a perfectly good couch and blanket and everything for you to do so. But what did you do? Did you _appreciate_ my kindness? No. No, of course you didn't. Instead, you sleep for all of ten minutes, then go sneaking off to do only God knows what, only to turn up over fifteen minutes late and bowl over a cart of _dangerous chemicals_ , not making a complete ass of yourself and destroying private property in the process, but putting the entire staff of Pearson Hardman to shame."

"But _you,"_ the mulish associate perseveres, pointedly ignoring Harvey's fury. "You gotta learn to loosen the reigns, man. I can't work under these conditions. With you yelling at me all the damn time—"

"I wouldn't have to yell if you'd just lis—"

"But that's the thing," Mike butts in yet again. It takes everything in Harvey's power not to strike him. " _Should_ I listen? I mean, really? No offence, but _one_ person in charge, _all_ _the time_? Makes zero sense. Are they gonna be right every. single. time, or only nine out of ten times? Which, on a whole, seems like a pretty solid statistic, and I'm talking outta my arse here, but what I'm trying to say is—what if I have a better idea, huh? What if I just think your idea's stupid, but never get a chance to explain myself because you're too busy thinking all _my_ ideas are stupid? Do you get where I'm coming from?"

"No," Harvey deadpans, "I don't. Because, quite frankly, you're talking a load of shit."

"Well, that's nothing new."

"Maybe not." Despite his best efforts to hold it at bay, Harvey feels a smile creeping onto his face. "How's your hand?" he asks, after a minute, nodding to the gash on his palm where it got nicked with a shard of glass.

"Nothing I can't handle."

"You should get that seen by a professional. Take the rest of the day," he offers. "Go home. Rest up. I need you back in tip-top shape as soon as possible."

Mike waves him off. "Nah, it's cool. I'll get someone to take a look at it tomorrow."

Levelling him with an uncompromising look, he repeats firmly, "Today."

"Tomorrow."

" _Today_ , Mike."

Mike rolls his eyes. Maybe later. More likely, never. Best case scenario, Harvey forgets all about his trifling little injury. But he'd better steer clear of him, just in case he accidentally does something to jog his memory. Pfft, _doctor_. Mike doesn't need to visit a doctor. He's _fine_.

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Mike is so definitely not fine.

He had been. Everything had _seemed_ fine. But then the next meeting was a dud, guy was a total no-show, so his work was dull and his skin grew so warm and sweaty that he couldn't focus at all, and that Dr. Slater dude started blowing up his phone, and somehow he ended up in the men's bathroom, scrubbing cold water into his face, and it just—

It all went downhill from there.

See, he'd reached for a paper towel, but they were all out—Least, he thought they were—so Mike checked the stall, and, hey, he's all fingers and thumbs, he must have clenched too tightly or yanked too hard, because it all came tumbling down.

Like, the whole, entire roll of toilet paper was spilling out into supple, playful curls and expanding in a shambolic heap. In some way or another, these far-reaching strips of white got tangled around his ankles and he'd hopped on one foot, tried to shake them off. When that didn't work, the frazzled associate bent down—he'd only wanted to sweep the pile up. But Mike found himself suddenly slashing and shredding. Little scraps of white fluttered around him and landed in his hair as he was ensnared in this mad, surreal frenzy. It was like an out of body experience. Mike didn't feel in control of anything.

He paddled the spinning roll and the torrent of tissue just kept going and going and _going_. It didn't seem like it would ever end.

But when it did, finally hitting upon the end of the tube, _he_ didn't want it to. He couldn't quit now. He'd only just gotten started!

It was all a blur after that. Mike lost in the sensations; under the influence of something far greater than himself.

He felt compelled to pump the soap dispenser with all his might; Raided the (very much stocked) electric towel dispensers, shooting out scratchy paper towels like a goddamn machine gun.

He jumped in the heart of his self-spun swimming pool, sparking his pants and spewing bubbles. Utterly helpless to his urges. Like an overgrown manchild, engineered as weapon of mass destruction.

Then, just as quickly as they had arisen, the chaotic scuttle of devastating impulses dissipated.

And all Mike is left with is a frothy puddle seeping between the tiles, water dripping onto the floor, and glittering suds moving sluggishly down the sinks.

He cringes as the soles of his shoes produce a shrill squeak of the most nerve-gratingly high frequency and decides against making any more sudden movements. He stares vacantly at the wreckage, wondering where it all went wrong. What the fuck came over him. Where the fuck that irresponsible, happy-go-lucky, screw-the-consequences standpoint went. And whether or not it'll come back in a hurry. Preferably before anybody sees him.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing starting when a heavy rap on the darkened wood breaks him from his reverie.

Mike pales.

"Mike?" At the sound of Harvey's uneasy voice, he turns impossibly whiter. There's a strange popping sound in his ears. All remaining colour drains from his face. The dishevelled blonde thinks he could pass out from shame and terror alone.

"Shit. _Shit_ ," he mutters, thrusting a hand through his hair and trying not to panic.

"Mike, Donna told me that she saw you come in here over an hour ago. Is everything alright?"

Cursing under his breath, he hurries to dispose of the evidence, though there's no hope he can get rid of it all in time, and he knows that, for the most part. Skidding across the wet floor in his haste, Mike cups his hands around a mound of foam and scrapes it towards the drain, shoves soggy toilet paper through the waste bin, and flushes the toilet twice. He smears his elbow across the lathered up mirror and snatches torn shreds of paper towels that have been strewn across the girth of the small bathroom, but it's not enough. How could it possibly be enough?

"Mike? Mike, I'm coming in."

"No! No, don't —"

Too late.

The door pushes open and Harvey stops dead. Dumbfounded.

"What...in God's name is this?"

"I - I don't...I was," Mike scrambles for something to say, but he's got zilch. There's really no possible way this could end well for him. "Um. It just...happened, I guess. I'm sorry." Why the heck is he apologizing to him? He's not the one who's going to have clean it up. Mike will. He obviously will. No way is he leaving this for someone else to deal with.

The back of his neck burns.

"It just happened?" Harvey reiterates, voice dry. He clearly does not believe him.

Wearing his deer-caught-in-headlights look, caught in the most basic _fight_ or _flight_ response, Mike blurts, "Uh, I've gotta…I've gotta go," and shoulders past him, but Harvey catches up soon enough and grabs his arm before he can truly make a break for it.

"What the hell was that back there?" he demands.

"Leave it, Harvey. I don't wanna talk about it."

"Well, tough. 'Cause we're gunna talk about it."

"I said dro— _ahhh._ _Jesus_ ," Mike breaks off with a hiss. He glares down at his abdomen like it's personally insulted him. "What the…?"

Harvey's expression instantly changes to one of concern. "Hey." He lays a hand on his bicep, brows furrowing in concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah. It's just —" he grimaces, sucks another thin breath between his teeth. "My—my side."

"Hurts like a bitch?" Harvey says wryly, winching up a brow. Mike nods. To which he tosses in a complementary 'told ya so' eye roll. "Figures. Told you, you shoulda got that checked out." Aaanndd…there it is. Right on schedule. "Looks nasty."

"No, it ju-…It's not that sore. It just…feels funny."

The older man's frown deepens. "Funny?" he echoes. "Funny how?"

"I don't know. Kinda…tingly. Look, I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just my accelerated healing process kicking in, I'm guessin.'" He plays it off with a lame joke and half-smile, but Harvey ain't buying whatever bullshit he's sellin'.

"You sure? Need me to take a peep?"

"Honestly, Harvey. It's nothing." He continues to brush off his concerns and steps a few paces back. "Forget about it."

"Doesn't seem like nothing. Come here a sec 'til I—hey, hold still." Mike certainly does _not_ hold still. He bats the assaulting hands away and blocks the advancing attorney, gaping at him like he's lost his frickin' mind. "I think I might have some gauze and disinfectant around here somewhere…" Harvey considers, oblivious to the mind-fuckery taking place in Mike's head.

He's hallucinating. Gotta be. It's the only explanation.

"Stay here while I fetch the first aid k—"

"No! Just… _no_. Slow down a minute. Jeez. Can you just…quit it with all the fussing?" Mike backs away, only to bump against the wall and discover he's been cornered. Goddammit. "It's fine. _I'm_ fine. Seriously, it's barely a scratch."

"I'll be the judge of that."

" _No_." Mike yelps when his _totally batshit insane_ boss reaches for the hem of his shirt. "You will _not_ be the judge of that. Harvey, what the hell's gotten into you? Stop freaking touching me!"

Fortunately, Harvey grants him a momentary reprieve when he adopts his classic, macho 'intimidating' stance and crosses his arms, brows furrowing with a matching look of frustration and perplexity in his dark brown eyes. For totally different reasons, of course.

"If it's so harmless," he puzzles out, clearly sceptical. "Why won't you let me have a look?"

"Why won't _you_ take my word for it when I tell you it hardly matters?" Mike fires back, lightening quick. "Why are you being like this all of a sudden? Can't you see you're overreacting? It's not as bad as it looks!" He ignores Harvey's low grousing of _'how am I supposed to know how it looks when you won't even show me'_ and focuses instead on not snapping at the damn, obstinate man. "Besides," he adds darkly, face shuttering over as a faraway glint shrouds the crystal-clear hue of his eyes. "I've dealt with worse. Let it go, Harvey. It's not worth getting upset over."

And whether or not he means him to, something tells Mike, Harvey somehow hears the unspoken words.

Shouldn't surprise him. He's been at this long enough; he can read between the lines. _You smoke pot; I read people._

But, nevertheless…however he hears it, whatever he thinks of it...the fact is Harvey hears it. And judging by the pained expression that suddenly warps his face into something that _better not_ be pity, something tells Mike that his words cut Harvey to the bone: _**I'm** not worth it. _ And he feels a twinge of guilt.

Jesus. This got real fast.

However, before either man can say anything, Mike suddenly cries out.

His face screws up in pain, beads of sweat dribbling between compressed brows. His skin turns a scorching shade of red.

Feverish and tingling from head to toe, Mike falls to his knees, gasping.

"Mike?" Harvey's voice comes from somewhere very far away. "Mike, what's happening?" He's seized by the shoulders and shook roughly. "Mike!"

"I don't…I don't feel so g-good…"

Before Harvey's staggered eyes, the clammy associate with the sickly complexion hunches over to puke with a vehemence and—and—

Begins to change.

Inches melt away by the minute. A shudder ripples across his back.

All of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, the twenty-five year old's lean arms get skinnier and skinnier; shorter, then stubbier. The rolled up sleeves of cotton shirt slip and swing by his sides. He's wasting away and all Harvey can do is gape in horror.

All the while, the enormous toil this is taking on his body is clear, as he draws in winded breaths and spasms weakly, a thin sheen of moisture forming on his upper lip. The two day old stubble rapidly fades away, turning patchy, before, all too abruptly, not a hint of peach fuzz remains. His fine hair turns finer as his sharp features soften, chiselled jaw smoothening and disappearing into a fattening babyish face, high cheek bones softening, lips becoming fuller and puckering against rounding cheeks.

As his shoulders collapse inwards and contract with a shudder, Mike clutches his stomach and _howls_ in agony—breaths coming in terse, excruciating gasps. His clothes become looser and looser. He grows smaller and smaller. Suddenly, his pants lie in a bundle at his feet as his belt hits the floor with a chink.

The toddler's—no, _Mike's_ eyes roll to the back of his head and he twitches once more for good measure, before going eerily still.

At last, the shrinking subsides, and all he is left with is a red-faced, dead to the world child, with pads of baby fat on the soles of his feet—giving them an almost flat appearance—poor muscle tone, protruding abdomen, and heart-melting as all hell, innocent face.

His tubby belly sinks and swells, presenting a pleasant—but sadly bogus—illusion of a restful sleep. Utterly speechless, Harvey stands there, stricken and uncomprehending, jaw hanging like a total idiot until he regains the presence of mind to snap it shut again.

Mike…Mike's a—he's a—

Did he just—?

Finally, when scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hand and all attempts to will away the impossible scene before him don't make a difference (His mind…it must have broken. Yeah…yeah, obviously. And how can a broken mind find a way right itself? It doesn't. It has to call in reinforcements), he dips his hand into his pocket and numbly extracts his cell phone, wasting no time typing his password into the keypad from memory. Gaze never budging from the unconscious little boy lest he disappear in a poof of smoke

Swallowing thickly around a swollen tongue, Harvey takes a deep, shuddering breath- and hits speed-dial.

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

"D-Donna? Y-yeah. No, no, I'm fine. It's…it's Mike. We, um, we've got a little situation…No, no! God, no! Nothing like that. Kind of…worse, actually. It's more, uh—Maybe you should come see for yourself. One…little thing, though? Don't tell anybody. Not Jessica, not Louis…no-one, okay?…Why? Oh, um…there's…ah, the tiniest chance that Mike may be out of action, so to speak…Possibly for good."

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

After Donna arrives, confirms the veracity of the miniature Mike and promptly faints, they move him onto a more comfortable corner of Harvey's couch and sit stewing in silence for what feels like hours. Not saying anything. Just thinking. Waiting. Worrying. _What the hell are they gonna do?_ This is beyond either of them.

"Sooo," Donna drawls, clearing her throat and speaking for the first time after since regaining consciousness. Her voice still possesses a hint of huskiness, despite chugging down the litre bottle of water Harvey retrieved from her desk. "How do you wanna explain this?"

"Let's stick to a need-to-know basis," Harvey replies with an unconfident half-shrug.

What's the official protocol for whenever someone spontaneously shrinks in front of you? Do you tell people? _Should_ you tell people? His mind is too jumbled to think straight. He grinds tired fingers into his temples and massages intently, as if trying to expel all of this…madness from it entirely.

"So…everyone?"

He sighs. After a moment, gives a clipped nod.

"Everyone."

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

"No. Harvey, _no_! This is crazy!"

Jessica's incredulous voice easily drowns out the rest.

Donna winces. "Jessica—" she begins, flicking a glance at Harvey, who purses his lips; shrugs.

"This whole thing's crazy," he states, matter-of-fact. "What's your point?" He's acting careless, way too blasé, but that's all it is—an act. A terrible, shameless act filled with nothing more than hot air, suave words, and barrels of false confidence. And there's not a single person in the room, including him, who's not thinking it.

"I can't condone this," she tells him, turning away and crossing her arms with deeply knitted brows and extremely disgruntled features.

Harvey rocks backwards. "I don't remember asking for your permission," he points out, stiffly.

"Don't give me that." She's equally ill-tempered. "Can't you see I'm _worried_ about you? Why wouldn't I be? Hell, I'm concerned for the kid and all. You have _zero_ experience childminding—"

"You speak as if that's an issue—"

"It _is_ an issue," the managing partner cuts him off, looking at him like he's lost his mind. "This whole damn thing is an issue."

Looking skyward and huffing out a breath, he mutters, "You're overreacting."

"Like hell I am!" Jessica snaps. "Harvey, you know _nothing_ about kids."

"So?"

"You hate them."

"Your point is…?"

"Why? My point is _why_? Why would you subject yourself to this? This is insane even by your standards. Are you in the middle of some midlife crisis or something I didn't know about?"

"I wouldn't rule out the possibility," he muses. "Though if we're analysing key motivations, we'd best factor in my innate need to go against your wishes and fatal soft spot for the kid. Suffice to say, I may not have entirely thought this through."

"Thanks for that," Jessica scoffs. "That makes me feel so much better. As if I didn't already goddamn know that."

He sighs. "Look. Can't you at least _pretend_ to be happy for me?"

"I thought you didn't care about my opinion?"

He just shoots her a flat, sardonic look.

She chuckles shortly at that, but there's no humour in it—not in any of this. After a long, reflective exhalation and counting to ten in her mind, she says finally, "There's nothing I can say to talk you out of this?"

Harvey smirks, almost boyish. "Never is."

"Alight. Fine." Jessica refills her lungs and shakes her head briefly, already regretting her next words. "If this is what you really want… _Really_ want. Then fine. I'm on board." He starts to smile, but she quickly warns, "For now," before can get his hopes up. "Might as well humour you until you get bored."

"I'm not going to get bored." The set of his jaw is stubborn, as is the blazing fire in his eyes. Harvey doesn't commit often, but when he does, he _really_ does. Completely. Whole-heartedly. He is one-hundred percent in this.

"That's what you say now." Jessica smirks at him like he's a little kid with a shiny new toy, but it's only teasing. He's trying. Seriously trying, she knows. And she doesn't wish to diminish that. "Wait 'til you're elbow-deep in human waste for the first time. Then we'll see."

"He's two," Harvey reminds her.

"Doesn't matter. Accidents happen."

Narrowing his eyes at the woman's deeply amused tone, Harvey gives Jessica the stink-eye and flashes his tongue at her.

"Nice," she laughs. "Very mature, Harvey. You'll make a great father."

"Of course I will."

Jessica snorts, rolling her eyes at him. "Yeah, 'course. Can't imagine why not. You're only an incredibly busy lawyer, who can barely handle his own complex emotions, never mind deal with anyone else's, with a very real, self-sabotaging commitment phobia, re-raising your fraud of an ex-associate. What could possibly go wrong?"

If he had to guess?

_A lot._

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

When Dr. Slater finally returns his calls, the first thing Harvey thinks is: _this is not a conversation you have over the phone._

He grinds his teeth together as the scientist's pleas fall on deaf ears. Cusses him out; resists the urge to toss the phone out the window and or smash it underfoot. Yells until he's rasping. Threatens to march down there and clock him in person.

After thirty or so minutes of this, Harvey calms enough to speak - to some degree - rationally about his associate's transformation, inquiring primarily about Mike's well-being (the doc would need to run some tests, but he's confident that the toddler is perfectly healthy. "The others were," he swears, but all Harvey hears is: _others_. What others?) and learns that he _will_ wake up. Just…not for another four or so hours.

He feels more than a smidgen of guilt for not having given the man a fighting chance to respond to his callous accusations sooner (Rest assured, Harvey has quite the creative vocabulary, when he puts his mind to it), but he deserved it. Hell, _Harvey_ deserved it. He needed to vent, and there isn't exactly a queue of self-preservation-less morons lining up to let him bellow at them, is there? Dream on.

Then it's a matter of transporting Mike safely back to his place and pacing up and down the length of his condo; while playing the increasingly torturous, nail-biting waiting game.

Waiting for-

He swallows.

For the worst moment, he presumes, of either of their lives.

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

His heart comes dangerously close to fracturing when Mike rouses and all he can murmur is a quiet:

"I'm stuck like this, aren't I?"

Harvey tries to locate his voice, but it's suddenly become rather adept at hide-and-seek. He digs down deep, but it's nowhere to be found. His mouth is open, but nothing is coming out.

At the silver-tongued lawyer's uncharacteristic loss of words, Mike nods to himself. His voice cracks.

"Thought so."

He settles back and rolls over onto his side, trembling delicately and silently weeping without making so much as a peep.

He falls asleep like that. Tear tracks drying on cherub cheeks, features agitated and deeply creased. Hugging his knees.

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

Late that night, Harvey worships the blogging God's of Google, with a furious torrent of _clack clack clack_ as his fingers fly over the keys, words and phrases he never imagined himself uttering flashing across the screen as all of his suppressed uncertainties and darkest fears spit them out in rapid succession into the search engine.

He gulps down as much scotch as he can get his hands on, trying to breathe. _Just breathe_.

It's only when he finds himself hitting subscribe to an award-winning parenting blog that it truly hits home how drastically his life has changed.

Harvey swishes the scotch in his hand and tips the glass against his mouth, keeping his eyes fixed on the slumbering blonde tot moulding into the curves of his couch. He walks over slowly, as if afraid that if he moves too quick, the peaceful apparition will disappear.

Harvey eases down onto the floor with bated breath and lightly grazes the back of his fingers across the two-year old's cheek, heart frozen in his chest.

He is in _way_ over his head. Terrified of what tomorrow will bring.

He has no idea what to do next.

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**-x-X-x-**

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_Thanks for reading!_


	3. Learn the Ropes

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**CHAPTER TWO:**

Learn the Ropes

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**A/N:** As a show of good faith after a longer than intended break between updates, I've decided to post the next chapter, too. I don't know what the heck happened to my dreams of shorter chapters, but what can you do? Enjoy.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

_After:_

* * *

"Again, Mr. Specter?" one of the security guards chuckles, gazing down fondly at the bright blonde, teeny soft-spot magnet currently chewing on one corner of the ID badge hanging from around his neck as he lags behind the senior partner, too busy gnawing on the bendy plastic to take notice of much else. By now, the battered casing is indented with layer upon layer of petite bite marks and has accrued months worth of foggy smudges to the point of obscurity; the standard print clouded with countless scuff marks and abrasions. Been through a lot, poor little bastard. May God have mercy on its poor, plastic soul.

To-go coffee cup in hand, bright blue elephant backpack slung over his shoulder, Harvey squeezes the small hand in his, unapologetically adoring, and fires back with a twinkling grin, "What can I say, Frank? I've got a weird kid."

"Cute, though."

"The cutest."

All of a sudden, as though it is only now dawning on him that they have arrived at their destination, the cutie in question abruptly halts. A grumpy little frown works its way onto his face as Mike registers that he was supposed to be doing something, something _important_ , he's positive— _hey…wasn't he regaling another of his epic tales to Harvey? Why'd he stop?_ When _did he stop? Dammit, why is it he_ never _seems to get to the ending?_ —before he got all distracted by silly pigeons waddling across the pair on the street and this funky-smelling skateboarder showing off his wicked skills, and the shiny, reflective surface of his badge…

Hm. Speaking of.

Harvey's Pearson Hardman employee ID falls to the youngster's knees and swings there for a beat as Mike releases it from his enthusiastic chops. Both adults watch on in amusement as he struggles to seize the slippery accessory, but, once he does, the laborious effort pays off, it seems, as he glances up at Harvey with a mega-watt beam to check he's still paying attention. Well, someone has to. Whatever would Mike do if one day he finds himself no longer the sole object of Harvey's affections? All hell would break loose.

Still grinning, he toddles round to the patient security guard, who is attempting to school his expression into one of professional neutrality and failing spectacularly.

"Here go, Mr. Frankie!" Mike chirps, flinging out an arrow-straight arm and proudly presenting the slimy credentials with an equally slobbery hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Specter," Frank plays along, affecting a respectful tone, as most of them do, but making no move to accept the offering. That's a lesson he learnt the hard way after automatically reaching for it on more than one occasion and getting rewarded with a brush of moist saliva. That was a truly wonderful way to start the day. "You look refreshed. Did you have a nice rest over the weekend?"

"Uh-huh," he nods, overly serious. Little shit has no trouble bragging. "Sata'day I had _two_ naps. And you?"

"Oh, I had a _very_ lazy weekend, Mr. Specter. On Sunday," he lowers his voice to a conspiring stage whisper, holding a finger to his lips, "I had _three_."

At Mike's gasp, Harvey snorts. Those two naps he's priding himself on? Nothing short of a goddamn miracle. If Frank could have only heard the screaming matches…

Frank sends Harvey a knowing look, before wagging a finger and adding mock-seriously, "But don't you go telling my wife."

"Won't. Won't! Pinkie swear."

"Hmph. Well, if it's a pinkie swear that's a whole other matter entirely…"

The two seal the deal with the sacred ritual, and afterwards the security guard continues to indulge the little boy. "And how did the big meeting on Friday go? I hear Mrs Pearson was anxious to see it succeed."

Yeah. Harvey didn't have any 'big' meetings that day. But if he did? Well, it'll be interesting to see how Mike answers.

"Umm…" Mike glances up at Harvey, pursing his lips and considering. He pushes an index finger into his mouth—his typical 'I'm super stumped here, but how about we all agree to pretend otherwise' pose—and finally chirps, "Very good!"

Frank laughs at that, his shoulders shaking with it as he glances over at the senior partner. They share a good-natured grin. "Glad to hear it, sir. You go on through and have a nice day. Snag as many of those divine naps as possible while you still can."

The echo of his buoyant mirth follows them all the way to the elevators, and, once again, Harvey's heart is filled with warmth as he appreciates how gifted his son is in brightening virtual strangers' days. There's not a day that goes by that they don't get stopped in the street by cooing, grown men and women alike, who are all-too-willing to fall under his devilishly adorable puppy's spell.

As per his strict instructions, the youngster dances around Harvey's feet while maintaining a robust connection with his father's hand, truly putting the elasticity of the man's arm to the test as they wait for their turn. He babbles about everything and anything, mouth going a hundred miles a minute and tripping over itself as he talks utter rubbish that the seasoned lawyer has no hope of making heads or tails of.

Once again, Harvey finds himself wishing toddlers came with subtitles. Not that whatever he's saying is anything exceedingly important, he figures. Probably singing Frank's praise or some shit. It's fine. He's not jealous. Mike's admiration of another doesn't detract from his adulation of Harvey himself. Pfft, puh-lease…

Admittedly, it's an area he needs to work on.

Finally, there's a bright ding and the doors disappear, granting them entryway. Only when they are safely on board does Harvey allow himself a sigh of relief.

Every so often, Mike will take these notions that they must 'bunny hop' inside, and, while there certainly have been instances where the senior has been granted a pardon, most days he is not so fortunate and has no other choice than to participate. And his heart's gotta be in it, too, lest he find himself on the wrong side of Mike's esteem and be instructed to start all over again. From the top!

Remind him why he lets this little tyrant dictate his life again? Why, oh, why must he succumb to his every last, mind-bogglingly bizarre wish?

Oh. Right.

It's 'cause he's cute, isn't it?

Damn. Why did he have to be so frickin' cute?

That's not even counting the pup's set of logic-defying pipes. For such a small little fella, he sure can make some noise. Stake in the heart, bullet to the brain—boom, double whammy. Those suckers could topple an entire city.

He's just glad to have been spared the indignity today. It's bad enough that at least half the firm has borne witness to such travesty and Donna possesses the sole copy of the security footage to lord over his head. There's no need for yet another damning performance.

Unless, of course, Mike decides otherwise. In which case he's fucked.

Harvey moves to punch in the number for their floor, but Mike bats his hands away. " _No, no, no_!" he scolds, jerking his knees and stamping a foot. His pitch nears a glass-shatteringly high whine. "I push, Daddy! _I_ push!"

Harvey falls in, rolling his eyes.

With a look of sheer and utter delight, the toddler wobbles on his tippy toes and stabs the button for their floor, a pleased smile blossoming as the ring around it lights up.

"Alright, buddy. Job well done. Now, up we get," Harvey orders, growing impatient as he hoists him and all his slobbery glory onto his hip. Last thing he wants is the two-year-old zooming around in the confined space, only to become dizzy and nauseated and have him puke over his shoulder like he did last time. It took him, like, at least a solid hour to forgive Mike after that.

Okay— four minutes. But, whatever. It's not like he needs a recap.

The doors are just about to merge when a hand shoots out and wedges itself into the narrow gap.

Harvey doesn't bother masking his groan as none other than Louis frickin' Litt steps on. The junior partner flicks them a glance of indifference. His lips twist into something predictably nasty.

"I see your little darling's been drooling all over the floor again," he remarks after a moment, his faintly apologetic tone ringing decidedly insincere. "I mean, _yikes_. You'd think you'd have that under control by now, wouldn't you, Harvey? Probably should've left him at home, huh?"

"I see your opinion is as irrelevant as ever," Harvey calmly counters. "Probably shouldn't bother coming in at all in future. I think we can both agree it would be in everyone's best interests, right, Louis? What with you constantly inflicting them on others."

Before he can form an insipid comeback, Harvey's chipper chatterbox breaks in, saving them from any more of Louis' embarrassing lack of wit and general ineptness. "Louis! Look, Louis! Look!" He squirms in Harvey's arms, breathless with excitement, so eager as he is to share his phenomenal news. He's practically bursting with it. "Look my peace car! Daddy gots it for me for being good and, and not biting Dr. Ken!" Mike shakes the model vehicle, distracted, and, like an afterthought, tacks on, "He my dentist."

"That's…nice."

"And it, it light up, too!"

"Does it?" Louis half-heartedly raises his brows, feigning interest. "Very good. Very— " The doors open. "Yeah, I gotta go."

Then he hightails it outta there like the elevator shaft's gonna go up in flames if he stays for one more stinkin' second.

At the crestfallen look on Mike's face, Harvey is gripped by the sudden urge to tear out the spineless weasel's jugular, but deliberately sucks in a breath or two to prevent any rash decisions on his part, 'cause, he…he gets it. Kind of. In a vague, past experience sort of way, if he tries really, really hard to eliminate all traces of bias.

It's funny, observing Mike and Louis' interactions as a casual onlooker, how easily Harvey could imagine slotting himself into Louis' position. The ease of which he can picture past incarnations of himself, the douchey, closed—off closer, taking the junior partner's place as 'guy who cannot wrap his head around how such peculiar little beings, with their weird quirks and shockingly illogical customs, can possibly subsist within the same universe as himself.' _That_ guy.

You can spot 'em a mile off. The uncertain ones—perplexity painted across their faces, totally out of their depth in any given babysitting situation. The uncomfortable ones slowly backing away when a child in the vicinity breaks down crying, like public meltdowns are somehow contagious.

Yeah? Got one in mind? Those ones. People who've never spent any substantial time around kids, and never really had any particular inclination to.

Harvey used to be one of them.

Hell, he was the epitome of That Guy. Only worse, because he was snooty about it, too. _Why would anyone want a snot—nosed brat that never shuts up, wrecks mayhem everywhere it goes, and shits all over the floor all the goddamn time, without ever cleaning up after itself?_ He remembers posing to Donna once upon a time.

In retrospect, he figures he deserved the deadpan retort: _I don't know, Harvey. Some people are just natural dog lovers._

Now, six months in, rooming with one, Harvey is honestly starting to question whether he even really knew kids existed before.

Sure, he'd seen kids, knew of kids, listened to clients regale tales of their kids. But he never _knew_ about kids. Not a damn thing, apparently, 'cause this has all been so bewilderingly new to him.

That blissful ignorance of before? His indifferent attitude? Where they stayed firmly on the outskirts of his vision, no concern of his? That's no longer the case. It's left him in a uniquely vulnerable place.

Harvey isn't used to not knowing stuff.

He's rarely ever truly out of his element, and his arrogance often prevents him from worrying too much, or having any qualms over his ability to get the job done.

But this isn't a done and dusted kinda deal; will never be, unless he wants it to be. How the hell is he meant to process that?

He's learning as he goes, without an inkling of what equates success, and that's not a practise the best closer in New York City ever could have conceived himself becoming well acquainted with. Harvey is so unqualified, it's not even funny. He's in a position of responsibility unlike anything else, ever. Nothing compares to this.

He's responsible for another _life_. Harvey's required to make sure Mike eats, sleeps, enjoys being a part of the world.

Between scouring the internet, devouring books on fatherhood, and weighing up which preschools in the district to register for this spring— _oh, God, he's so behind. Why didn't he think to enrol Mike in the Mommy and Me programme three damn years ago? You know…back when it._ _ **booked. up?!**_ _Who cares if he's not a mother? And back then, he wasn't anywhere close to being a father? Now Mike'll never get to make adorable finger-paintings in an organised setting, whatever the heck that means, or go on the summer camping retreat, and he'll fall into the wrong crowd and start doing drugs again, and, Christ, he's botched this whole thing up before it even really got started. Mike's never going to get into college now!_ —Harvey's torn between fear that he's lost his edge, ready to call quits, and being more determined than ever to get this right. He researches the dietary needs of a growing toddler, hunts down the best paediatricians in the state and signs up for their waiting list, bookmarks sites on stupid shit like 'how to deal with the infamous terrible twos' and 'top tips for potty training your unwilling cub.'

Mike's already potty trained.

Least, he's pretty sure he is. Almost certain—almost. The occasional accident doesn't count, right? But, hey…better safe than sorry, no?

It's the crash course in parenting he never envisioned himself taking.

Yet…he is.

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

_In the beginning…_

* * *

A distant bang jars Harvey from an exhausted sleep.

Rolling out of bed with a groan, he shoves his arms into the dark sleeves of his robe, slowly pads out to the source of the sound, and groggily fumbles for the switch.

Thump. Thump.

 _Click_.

Tilting his head and squinting into the sudden brightness, Harvey takes stock of the kitchen, curiosity piqued.

"What on earth…?"

He slowly surveys the area, jaw slackening with abject horror, as the sleep-fuddled cogs of his mind buck up and start whirling at rapid speed.

Greasy, golden smudges and thick, gluey globs mark the pristine, black walnut of his cabinets. Messy hand prints paint the walls and edging of the upper shelves, leaving behind a splodgy trail that leads right back to the guilty perpetrator. There—in the centre of it all—a spectacularly cute Mike is plonked on the tiled floor with one hand crammed down the peanut butter jar, the other sucking his caked fingers, blue orbs wide and sporting a classic deer-caught-headlights expression. Clumps of peanut butter have been grinded into his hair, a few blonde locks stick straight up all by themselves, seemingly defying gravity itself, and fine nuts are pasted to his cheeks.

A bright red, unscrewed lid lies discarded by his bare feet; stubby little piggies curl with embarrassment.

Voice thick and rough with sleep, the stunned male blurts, "How the f-crap did you get that? Actually—don't answer that, I don't wanna know. What I really want to know is _why_ did you get that?" Mouth open and closing wordlessly, brows creased in absolute bafflement, he casts a look at the clock and notes, "Mike…it's almost two a.m."

"I…I—s-sorry, H'vey," the small boy stammers out, dropping his gaze and sounding utterly crushed. As he removes his hand from his mouth, a gush of yellowed saliva floods down his chin.

It's gross. It's ridiculously endearing.

It's one of the most undignified things Harvey can imagine.

Exhaling tiredly and sliding down to the floor beside the youngster—grimacing as he leans back and his shirt sticks to something gooey—the senior partner gives a humourless smile. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, kiddo." Images of an unsteady Mike gripping onto the ledges of the shelves flash through his mind, and he shakes them off, disturbed. He's safe; he's fine. No harm done, right?

Mike sniffs hard.

"Yeah, do," he maintains, crushing his nose with peanut-caked knuckles. Alongside the emotion-warped waver of his babyish pitch, the stark acidity of Mike's voice is all the more jarring. "Tan't— _can_ 't...do…be…—" **_this_** _, Harvey. I_ "—can't…can't 'peak." _I can't even speak properly._

Smeared across his left eyelid, a wet blob glistens as it catches the light. Damp patches of drool darken Spiderman jammies. There's no mistaking what's going on here.

Mike's finally hit breaking point.

He slammed on the brakes, skidded across the ice, but reality came, the ice cracked, and now he's dumped in frigid waters with no possible way out.

"Dunno if I tan—how I gonna…?" the small boy blubbers, unable to govern the feeble efforts of his tongue, unable to summon the words he needs because he's not sure if they're still there at all. With a choked sob, days worth of repressed tears brim over and what remains of his composure collapses around itself, a violent shudder ripping through his chest.

_If I can't speak, will you still hear me?_

_If my eyes are closed, why does it matter if I'm sitting in the dark?_

"I know, kiddo," Harvey murmurs, wrapping his arms around his quaking frame and letting him cry into his chest. He rubs circles into his back. "I know."

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**-x-X-x-**

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* * *

He wakes up warmer than he's ever been in years.

He feels the weight of an arm lax around his midsection, registers the source of heat directly behind, hears the long, deep pulls—oddly comforting to take note of—and senses a recurrent disturbance in his lightly rumpled hair at the warm air expelled shortly after.

Mike tries to back up a bit, but discovers he has little more than an inch of breathing space before he bumps into a compact chest. Teetering on the border of the mattress, cocooned by his former boss and held in place by a chance, I-shit-you-not _cuddle_ , Mike has absolutely nowhere to go. He is—effectively—trapped.

Well.

This isn't awkward at all.

Between his rapid-fire thoughts and building panic, it takes a moment to piece the events of the night together. Having finally successfully calmed him down, Mike remembers Harvey scooping him up and carrying him back to his bedroom, taking one look at his bewildered frown and explaining frankly, "Tonight you're bunking with me."

Last thing he remembers is twisting away as a cold wipe swiped around his chin, getting really annoyed when the tingly bastard refused to get lost and leave him the hell alone already. (Yeesh, it had been, like, ten minutes straight of non-stop pestering. C'mon, was that _really_ necessary? _Really_?) This was followed by brief rocking as the mattress dipped, then a brisk swish of sheets, the lightest of touches to his forehead, and a gruff uttering, "'Night, kiddo." After that…blank.

But, now when he thinks about it, it was actually pretty cool of Harvey to do that. He didn't have to go to so such extraordinary lengths to accommodate him (because, if you deem such a huge concession of the dude's chief principles as anything _but_ extraordinary, then you sure as shit don't know Harvey). Or, maybe he did, Mike reconsiders, with a wailing kid on his hands—having just stopped the living foghorn from screaming the place down and genuinely terrified of bringing about a repeat episode. Nonetheless, Mike's oddly touched by the small act of kindness.

Doesn't make it any less awkward, though.

Curious as to where exactly on the bed he places, the youngster cranes his neck and steals a look downwards, but can catch little more than a glimpse of raised sheets and vast planes of shallow dips and rippling grooves snaking out beyond him.

 _Dammit_ , this is hopeless. He's too damn small to see anything worthwhile! If anything, all that move accomplished was adding fuel to his this-bed-is-freakin'- _humungous_ fire and budding Napoleonic complex.

Mike falls back with a huff.

Now what?

It is possible that he could slip underneath the covers and blindly crawl to the bottom, but that poses a huge risk in the whole, not-wanting-to-accidentally-suffocate-himself-or-some-shit predicament. Plus, what if he got lost down there? He'd never find his way out! Or, or what if Harvey happened to roll over at the most inopportune moment and crushed him by mistake? Or, he strayed too close to the edge and tipped over and _died_?

All of which are very real, very frightening possibilities. Jesus, why must he be so frickin' _tiny_? This whole situation stinks.

A brief wiggle of his toes reveals that—to his crushing disappointment—Mike barely even reaches Harvey's kneecaps. He continues violently wriggling, growing increasingly more agitated. What did he ever do to deserve such smallness? It's just not fair! He bets Trevor would never find himself in this posi—

Mike cuts off at quiet rustle from behind.

Stilling as he even that slight activity is enough to stir the slumbering lawyer from his sound sleep, he tries to feign sleep—which is totally stupid, he realises, and highly counterproductive to his aspirations of freedom—but is much too tense to pull off the pretence.

" _Mmm…Mike_?" a gravely voice grumbles, rumbling against his torso. He can literally feel the vibrations along his spine, something warm nosing at the base of his neck, and Mike stiffens at the sensation.

The arm around his middle tightens.

"Mike…don't." A loose fist forms around a handful of the peanut butter-crusted pyjama top. There's an edge of frustration to his tone as he pushes down deeper into the pillow and mumbles, "That's…no, st — bad puppy. Bad."

_Wait a second._

A sly smile flickers across the boy's face.

It is with no small amount of amusement that Mike realizes Harvey's still dreaming. Twisting around for confirmation, he notes that—yup, the lawyer's eyes are, in fact, shut.

Mike's bubbling giggles are brought to a screeching halt, however, when his bold move suddenly costs him that precious, final inch of space. He squeaks in surprise as the arm that's been holding him prisoner hauls Mike over. Flush against Harvey's chest.

Harvey burrows his nose in his rumpled hair. "Stay," he mutters with a little sigh of contentment. "—…Stay."

Mike, on the other hand, finds himself uncomfortably aware of where their bodies align. It's hard not to, considering the kind of man he's snuggling with.

Jeez, this is _Harvey Specter_ we're talking about. The no-feelings-zone, loyal enforcer of the _nobody-cares_ policy. If he knew what he was doing right now, he would _freak_ out. There's no way he'd want to be caught dead hugging a kid. Nevermind _Mike_. He's just not…the type. The fatherly type, if Mike's gonna be candid about it. That's what makes this so weird—be _cause_ of the fact that it's not even _that_ weird.

There are certain aspects of engaging in such intimate proximity with another male that Mike would have imagined to be somewhat…unpleasant. But, here, that's not the issue. For one, he's already established that he's a shrimp. There's nothing untoward about it, in that respect. For another, aside from the more pragmatic side of his brain cringing at the thought of being spooned by his former, hard-nosed boss, the longer he lies here, the more…natural it feels.

It doesn't feel like anything's out of the ordinary. It feels _familiar_.

Plus, it helps that—as per frickin' usual—Harvey smells amazing. It's that annoying manly musk that Mike could never seem to achieve naturally—or artificially, if Rachel's grievances concerning his 'overpowering' cologne while they were dating were to be taken at face value—and it strikes him as strange that, well, the soothing familiarity of said scent isn't a lot more strange. Like, sure, he's as jealous and mystified as ever, and, yes, the lack of bad breath and unpleasant body odours is a little odd. (Seriously, though, how can anyone possibly smell _this_ good, _this_ early?)

But…Mike's warm.

He's comfy, and relaxed, and it feels sort of…safe…to be honest, to be held so close, knowing that Harvey's right there if he needs him.

Perhaps it's time to shut off his brain and just bloody enjoy it while it lasts. Why not? It's not like he has much of a choice. He has little other alternative than to stay put and wait it out.

Mike presses closer, trying to remember the last time he felt this content and glumly conceding it's been a long time since anything's come close.

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* * *

He wakes to a cold foot plonked atop his forehead.

Much to his surprise, despite having a squirmy pint-sized human next to him, he slept well. _Really well_ , actually. Despite the fact that Mike is clearly a classic sheets hogger, and—if that weren't bad enough—has, at some point during the night, sprawled out in some weird starfish shape and somehow got turned around so that he was lying upside down with one leg thrown over the older man's hip. His blonde tuffs lie skewed across his forehead, quivering with each stuttering snore and quiet snuffle as his rounded tummy rises and falls in harmony with his breaths.

Harvey's dying for a piss, but, right then, gazing down at this little sweetheart, he honestly turns the idea of never setting foot in a bathroom again over in his mind. Especially when he turns and nuzzles into Harvey's thigh. He's still debating and trying not move too much for fear that he'd dislodge the rough heel on his head when the snoring cuts short and Mike's eyelashes flicker.

The foot falls away, allowing Harvey to turn his head and wince at the spasm of pain signalling that that pose may not have been the best idea if he wanted to avoid getting a kink in his neck.

From this angle, he can see the clean, blanched sunlight that filters through the windowpane, speckled with dancing flecks of dust. The sky is awash with a dreary iron-grey, which is fitting, he thinks, as he warily studies Mike, coming to awareness and looking like someone just ran over his cat.

He has no right to look so surly and yet so sweet concurrently. It's screwing with Harvey's mind.

Case in point—his crazy bed hair flutters as he shimmies down onto the floor, looking as if it's his sole duty on earth to pump cuteness into the atmosphere. It's too frickin' much.

Harvey realises a soft smile has wormed its way onto his face and has to erase all traces of it, before he can be caught looking so appallingly soppy. "Go get dressed," he instructs, voice gravelly with the remnants of sleep, and _nothing else._ He threads his fingers through his own uncultivated hair to tame it. "We've got less an hour before he need to leave for the firm."

He throws back what little covers are still wrapped around him, shivering as the newly disturbed cold air hits the bare skin of his arms and legs. Then he scrubs the grit out his eyes and stumbles over to the bathroom, before heading to his walk-in closet in search of clothes.

While Mike wrecks through his recently purchased assemble of disgustingly charming garments for the least God-awful option (washed-out jeans, navy zip-up hoodie, and a green and white Hulk tee, if you're interested), Harvey rifles through his rack of suits and picks out the darkest cloth— he has yet to fully grasp the depth of Mike's knack for magnetizing dirt and sticky substances, but last night granted him the foresight to know that it would be wise to at least  _try_ to arm himself against the mere _potential_ of such stains. Thus, the dark colours best suited for the concealment of grubby handprints.

Mike stuffs his feet into his squeaky, kiddie-appropriate sneakers with deep-set frown etched onto his face, and exhales through his nose.

The lawyer figures now is as good a time as any to snap a quick pic to send to Donna, showing off the kid's new rig. As he adds the finishing touches to his message and puts his phone away, Harvey frowns at the view before him, while he slings his tie around his neck and smoothly crafts his standard Windsor knot.

Mike is toying with the fastener of his sweatshirt, biting down viciously into the pouty meat of his lip and yanking hard, without success.

With a twinge of concern, Harvey hesitates, before asking, "Everything alright, buddy?"

The kid stiffens. "Jut great," he answers bleakly. He releases the zipper with a bluster and tugs roughly on the twin cords, wrinkling the hood and leaving one side uneven. Then, without another word, he clumps up the hall with his shoulders set low, arched tightly inwards.

Harvey takes his sweet time buttoning up his waistcoat and fiddling with the clasp on his silver rolex, before joining him. This is _not_ an experience he is looking forward to. If Mike's attitude so far has been any indication— and he'd wager it is— this day is not going to go well. A prickle of dread darts down his spine as he tentatively enters the kitchen area and spots Mike doing— oh, God, what is he doing?

Promptly pouring himself a cup and slugging down a piping hot assault of freshly-brewed coffee, Harvey's decides a scalded throat and mildly burnt tongue is the least of his problems. He leans against the worktop and lifts the lip of the mug to his mouth to take another generous glug.

Harvey watches with lips semi-warped in a conflicted mix of amusement and apprehension as Mike struggles to scale one of his lofty bar stools. Foot fumbling at the foundation, he claws pitifully at the leather-clad cushion and digs his nails in with increasing frustrati— er, determination. At this rate, they'll be here all day.

Rolling his eyes after making sure the kid's not looking, Harvey plunks a hand on top to hold it in place, lest the heavy, metal structure tip over and flatten the boy. They're usually pretty sturdy, but with the way Mike's going at it, you can never be too sure.

At one point, he manages to clamber to the midway point (measured by his head at long last surpassing the height of the stool itself), 'finding' his footing by wedging a crushed sneaker between the bars, but his hands are too small to gain much purchase and he slides back onto the floor with a thump. At his sudden rapid blinking and the dangerous of his lower lip, Harvey has finally had more than his fill of soft grunting and embarrassingly weak grappling, so he grips under his armpits and hoists the youngster up without so much as breaking a sweat.

"Hey!" Mike squawks, shoving at him.

"A simple thank you would suffice."

"Toulda done myself," he grumbles, glaring at the countertop. In Harvey's opinion, he should count his blessings he's in a position to glare at it at all.

"Yeah?" The senior partner raises a brow. "When? 2020?"

He noisily exhales in preference of having to provide a cutting retort—let's face it: he's got nothing—and Harvey lets it go, because this day is already shaping up to be quite the crap-fest, without him adding to the conflict. "Breakfast?" he inquires, all casual and pleasant-like, instead.

"Dunno." Without glancing up, Mike lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. "Got any seewool?" he says after a moment.

"Any what?"

"Seewool," he repeats, before brusquely puffing out a breath and trying again, "Seeee- _woool_." If anything, his pronunciations are only getting progressively worse. It takes all of Harvey's self-restraint and more not to coo at the adorableness.

Giving up, Mike jabs a finger at his (yet to be cleansed) filthy cupboards in the most aggressive manner his unimposing frame is capable and gnashes his teeth together as his mounting frustration sizzles to the surface.

"Oh. _Oh_." Harvey's brows shoot up. He could almost facepalm as the realisation hits. "You mean _cereal_?"

He's pretty sure he hears one of Mike's baby teeth cracking.

The glare the mini-associate fires his way would be more than enough to break a lesser man. Luckily, Harvey's developed quite the thick skin. "Same fing," the cantankerous, blonde munchkin grits.

Harvey simply smirks. "Sure it is, kiddo." He crosses the kitchen to raid the refrigerator and learns with a pang that they're running low on milk and, well—everything else. "'Fraid not, bud," Harvey responds as he swings open an upper cabinet and assesses the stripped shelves, mouth tucked into a regretful frown. Right then, he has one of those light bulb moments like in the cartoon and reaches into back. "How about these?"

He holds up the box of raspberry pop tarts that he'd grabbed down at the convenience store the previous night for the tot's inspection. At Mike's apathetic half-shrug of agreement, he wastes no time ripping it open and plops one in the toaster. Hopefully with some grub in him, Mike'll be in better spirits. But, after having been stuck in a toddler's body for twenty four hours and counting, that's more than a little wishful thinking on his part.

He figures one slice should be enough. Mike didn't have much of an appetite yesterday—discounting the late night, peanut butter bender—and isn't likely to eat much today, either. Besides, his stomach's bound to be, like, the size of a grape now. It shouldn't take much to fill him up.

When the toaster pings, Harvey grabs the pastry and hisses at the unexpected heat of it, dropping like the goddamn thing's on fire onto his only plastic plate and shaking his hand quickly to dispel the sensation. "Gotta warn you— " He wets his smarting thumb to ease the pain and swipes it on his jeans, before setting the dish down in front of the boy with a self-deprecating grin. (Seriously, what is it with him and burning his most sensitive appendages today?) "S'pretty hot."

Mike doesn't even crack a smile.

If his behaviour wasn't troubling before, it definitely is now. Mike not poking fun at his morning ritual—that he can take. Put it down to a rare off day; he's not in a jokey mood. But passing up the chance to cackle at a hitch in Harvey's infallible composure? That's unheard of.

"Cool it with the scowling, kiddo. Your face mightn't be the prettiest on a normal day, but I'd hate to see it get stuck that way."

All Harvey receives for his efforts is cold, piercing glare.

"Good grief," he mutters. "You're in a foul mood."

"Do you blame me?" Mike pokes the tart and licks a lone sprinkle off his fingertip.

Harvey twists the faucet and fills a pitcher with water, because he's not one to stock up on squash and he's already established there's about droplet of milk left, if even. Plus, those things look dry as hell. "Not really. But —" he blows out a breath. Then, under his breath, "Do you have to look so goddamn cute doing it?"

Brows crinkling into a puzzled frown, Mike experimentally breaks off a piece of the tart with his teeth, takes a sip of water, and gulps it down. "What?"

"Nothing." Harvey shakes himself. "Finish your food."

He turns his attention to Mike's hair, taking advantage of his momentary absorption to iron out the tangles as gently as possible with a fine comb. There's a little bit of gel leftover from his earlier usage, but, if anything, that only makes the tricky task considerably easier. He's tempted to run his hands through the fluffy locks, squirt out some more goop, and spike them up into Mike's usual do—or, better yet, mould it into a miniature Harvey-coif, while denying the tot any and all access to a mirror—but Harvey refrains. Mike's pissed as it is. He doesn't need to push his luck with excessive meddling and alert the toddler to his movements. Stealth is the key to getting the job done. Preferably with minimal fuss.

When all that is left on the plate is a shower of crumbs and a nausea-inducing glob of raspberry jam that takes Harvey right back to the previous night's culinary catastrophe, Mike wipes his mouth with his sleeve and scoots forward as if readying himself to jump down.

Out of nowhere, a strangled sound escapes from the back of his throat and Harvey dashes forward with his arms outstretched to catch him, images of twisted ankles and fresh tear-tracks on inflamed cheeks flocking to the forefront of his mind. "Easy!" he does _not_ shriek. More like a manly…bark. Kind of. He sucks in a quick breath, heart thundering in his chest. "Are you crazy?! Ask for help next time. You couldn't come close to getting _up_ the damn thing. What makes you think you're in any way equipped to come down?"

His voice is too loud. His pitch too high.

Mike does not look impressed. His face turns an ugly shade of red, jaw tightening with murder in his eyes.

"I'm not an indali—invali—"

Recognising he may have overreacted _juuust_ a tad, Harvey shoves his hand through his hair and takes another deep breath. "I know, I know. Just…be careful." Mike's expression doesn't falter. To be generous (or, hell, who's he kidding? Just to keep the peace), he tacks on, "Please." (And, if his tone is a little too beseeching for his liking, then that's no-one's business but his own. Shut up, Mike).

"Tan do myself," the two-year old reasserts— just so they're understanding each other.

"Yeah. Sure," Harvey agrees, careful to keep the doubt from his voice. Deep down, he knows this is only just the start. They've barely scraped along the tip of that iceberg, and this is far from the last time the subject of what Mike can and can't do now is going to come up. Something tells him that will be quite the series of negotiations. And…like it or not, they won't always be able to compromise. Harvey can't be the one to fold. Not whenever it concerns the little boy's safety, for a start. Sooner or later (sooner. Definitely sooner), he's going to have to take a stand.

But that's a problem for another day. Fingers crossed; all going well. Right now, they have enough on their plate.

Peeking up at him from under a heavy cover of lashes, Mike pops the tip of his thumb in his mouth and offers sheepishly, "I fink pop tarts 'awe my new second favourite after peanut buddah and stuffed cust pizza." Whether that garbled, hot mess of a sentence is due to his steady thumb—sucking (something Harvey makes a mental note to keep an eye on), or just another deterioration of his speech, who can say? All Harvey knows is, it's endearing as hell.

And, on that note, he doesn't think he's labelled anyone or anything 'cute' as often within such a limited space of time like this since he was ten and begging his parents for a puppy. Appropriate then, isn't it? Mike Ross—Harvey's stupid little hopeless puppy.

Smiling into his mug, he drains the last dregs of his coffee and wonders, "So, wouldn't that make them your _third_ favourite, then?"

Mike shakes his head, resolute. "No. Second."

"If you insist." Harvey stifles a snigger at the stubbornness of his tone. "Not my favourites." Should he be nervous that the math for a self-professed numbers genius, the math is ever so slightly _off_? Or attribute it to another example of weird toddler logic, a minor oversight in his calculation? Either way, the niggling inaccuracy of it isn't exactly comforting. Mike is nothing if not _exact_. Prides himself on it, in fact.

It's just…odd.

 _Hang on._ Harvey shakes himself. _It's fine._ He's over thinking this. This is _subjective_ data; a list of his favourite _foods_ , for Christ's sake. The particulars of his ranking choices bears little significance….right?

He dumps his mug in the sink and grabs his keys, stuffing them into his pocket along with his cell-phone. He shrugs into his jacket, spins around to snatch his brief case and the miniature messenger bag Donna bought specially for Mike.

Speaking of, he looks down at Mike and gets down on his knees to drape the leather bag around his neck, adjusting the length of the strap and aligning it at his hip. Mike rolls his shoulder, testing the weight of it, and straightens it with a new light in his bluer than blue eyes—not quite a smile, but closer than anything else has come to one this morning.

"You about ready to head out?" Harvey asks, ruffling his hair warmly, because there's this stupid, _stupid_ part of him that simply can't resist.

"S'ppose."

"Good. Let's go."

They reach the door, but before Harvey can rest a hand against his back and shepherd the little boy out the door, he pauses and clears his throat. "H'vey," Mike awkwardly begins, scratching behind one ear. He gaze slumps to the floor. "About last night…"

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," Harvey cuts him off. His hand hovers for a beat, uncertain, before it moves to pat him on the head. The action comes off as a lot less patronizing than he would've predicted. "You're a kid now; If that isn't a free license to act as crazy as you like, I don't know what is."

"But —"

"Honestly, Mike," he says, abandoning the steady flow of endearments and crouching down to meet his eyes to show how serious he is. "It's okay."

Mike's lips faintly, barely twitch, but Harvey's already so sick of feeling like he's losing at this parenting thing, even in the whole day he's been at it, that he counts it as a wholehearted win. He'll take what he can get.

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* * *

Donna slides into her desk, and, on instinct, slips her cell out of her bag to check her personal email before her work day begins only to discover an unopened text. She swipes at the screen and scans the message, smile growing.

'From: Harriet Specter

Sent: [07:19]

Behold, the little spitfire I've had to deal with all morning…

 **[Press to download linked file]** '

Curiosity well and truly piqued, she clicks on the icon and waits for the photo to load in its full size. chuckles at the little treasure stored within. Enclosed is a somewhat grainy image of Mike (obviously taken on the spur of the moment and at the risk of incurring the terrifying little demon's wrath) decked out in his new Superhero gear. It would be perfect were it not for the positively terrifying scowl marring his precious, widdle face. She feels a moment of pity for Harvey, knowing that he has some tough times ahead. That scowl does not bode well for him. Not at all.

She clicks off her phone, smiles to herself, and sends a prayer that, _please God_ , her boys at least survive the journey to the office in one piece.

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* * *

To say Mike is ticked off would be a gross understatement of likely cataclysmic proportions. His anger simmers under the surface of his angelic exterior, lying in wait for the ideal moment to strike.

It's not that he _wants_ to be mad. Not at all. Quite the opposite, really. Harvey's been so good to him throughout this entire deal that he's trying really, really hard not to throw it all back in the man's face, but it's difficult. So, _so_ difficult.

And his body is simply too little to hold it all in.

His infuriating, ingenuous body with its chubby cheeks and wobbly pot belly—something he'd hoped to avoid until he was _at least_ nearing sixty. Guess he never thought to factor in miraculous genetic time travel. He hasn't even outgrown the dimple-kneed, thigh rolls and wrist folds stage yet, for crying out loud! How is anyone supposed to take him seriously?

Oh. Right.

They're not.

Example pending. No, uh—wait a sec. System shutting down from the vast influx of _working examples_. Happening. **_Right_**. _This_. _Second._

Like, oh, he doesn't know…the massive hand enveloping his, for instance?

See, Harvey hasn't got around to installing a car seat in Ray's limo yet, so they decided to walk to work, instead. Well—Harvey decided. Mike's just along for the ride, apparently. Doesn't look like he'll get to decide much for the next, oh, twenty years or so.

"Give me your hand," his ex-boss had commanded as soon as they exited the elevator. Mike yanked his arm away, outraged at the incursion. "Seriously, Mike." He'd then given him his ''and that's when he knew he'd well and truly lost. "Gimmie. I'm not messin' around. Last thing is want is for your puny butt to get swallowed up by that crowd." He jerked his head towards the street, and, yeah, damn right that shit was petrifying, so Mike dithered and sighed and delayed consenting for the standard ten, self-respecting minutes, but he had enough wits to know that sticking close to the senior partner was his best bet.

Didn't mean he had to like it.

And, hey, pardon him, maybe he's nitpicking a little, but shouldn't it have been _his_ choice? Despite what Harvey may think, he's not an idiot. Mike would have proposed they implement this whole hand-holding experiment in the interests of his protection eventually. All on his own, too. He didn't need Harvey to tell him it was a good idea.

Okay, so history would indicate that he did. But that was only _after_ he'd already suggested (ordered) it, so, strictly speaking, was it his fault if he took issue with it? Naturally, Mike was going to protest. He was damn near obligated to, if you ask him.

But Harvey didn't. Ask, that is.

He didn't feel he needed to.

Which is pretty frickin' vexing, when you think about it. It is, in part, Harvey's personality. He's the alpha, top-dog, all that shindig. But the greatly enlarged age difference between them only serves to aggravate those existing domineering tendencies. It figures that such traits would carry over to his parenting style. Man, doing the math, Harvey could have fathered him almost twenty times over. But…that isn't the point, is it? Because he's _not_ a real toddler. Mike's not really two (and, God, just thinking that makes him shudder).

Just because he's little, doesn't mean he's any less _Mike_. He has opinions. And _ideas_. And…things.

Look, he's pissed. Raving and nonsensical and all things crazed. And this? This ain't fanning the flames of his temper in the least.

To go have to go from living a fairly okay life of total independence to suddenly being bossed around every single minute of every day would be enough to drive anyone up the walls. Having someone else dictate when and how you live your life, granted authority over your every move...Can you blame him if it's driving Mike nuts?

He's been so used to taking care of himself, doing his own thing, what he wants when he wants. With no-one except his Grammy to answer to, who only knew what he opted to tell her.

It doesn't help that he's in the midst of learning what to do with these suddenly very intense emotions. And that he's rediscovering for the first time in over two decades just how _horrible_ his home city is.

Imagine being 25 pounds and less than four feet tall. Terrifying, right?

Now…imagine living in New York.

He's lived here for as far back as he can remember, but he's never been so drowned out by the racket, the hot rush, the pulsing intensity. Legs everywhere. Their calves all he can see, fabric rustling, lightly slapping against his face. Flanked by the click clack of heels, both men and women alike, like marching soldiers plodding on and on and on.

Manhattan in rush hour; what can you expect? Green means go—hurryhurryhurry— _NOW._

 _Slow down!_ he wants to yell. _Where are you GOING? What is so important that you have to trample on everyone else?_ It's like he's been stripped of his NYC native title. The inescapable, belligerent, ever-present _urgency_ simply doesn't make sense to him anymore.

He feels like he's being dragged along, swept away by the force of it all. His muscles pump on as hard as they can, but it's not enough to keep up. He almost trips over a hamburger wrapper blowing past in the breeze.

People going this way and that, criss-crossing, legs striding, never slowing. He doesn't know where to look.

Mike's so small that he can't reach any fresh air. Nothing _clean_. Unsoiled by the stench of burning rubber and endless street traders churning out deep fried heart attacks tucked away in gift wrapped, grease-sopping parcels. If he's lucky, he'll catch a whiff of baked goods from a passing bakery, or inhale a heady aroma of butter-drenched pretzels and smoky hot dogs from one of the vendors Harvey loves so much. But, more than anything else, there's the persistent tickle of fumes at the back of his throat, as if a car exhaust is blasting right into his mouth. Mike's coughing and spluttering, and he can't—he can't get enough _air_.

And the, the _noise_. Where is all of this commotion coming from?

Squealing—brakes on the heavy buses, trapped in a pile up of commuters. Blinding yellow cabs pulling up and screeching to a halt, peeling away again with a growling rev faster than Mike could've taken a breath.

Honking cars, engines roaring with impatience. Beeping garbage truck, reversing back, back—oops. Hiss of airbrakes, someone cursing.

And through it all, the traffic never stops whizzing past in that dizzying blur.

Mike slams his eyelids shut to block it all out, but—

Smells. Ghastly smells. Wafting up from subway grates—was it always this…pungent?

If he thought blotting out the soaring skyscrapers looming overhead and river rock grey of the landscape would ease his claustrophobia, Mike was sorely mistaken. The youngster's (completely justified) panic at being crushed stifles what little tolerance he has left.

Fear slows his feet to a crawl. Mike's insides clinch and he attempts to stabilise his breathing without success. It's just too _much_.

And, suddenly

Suddenly—

Oh, no. Oh, _fuck, no_. It's happening. Sound the alarm, it's really happening.

There's a hitch in Mike's breath, his forehead crumples, and, abandoning what's left of his dignity, he surrenders to his most primal urges.

The two-year old fists his hand in Harvey's pants, burrows his blubbering face into the senior partner's leg, and unleashes the loudest, most ear-splitting _wail_ you've ever heard.

Every single muscle in Harvey's body locks on the spot, stunned, as he looks down at the blubbering tot. Yes, the kid's a small fry now, but bursting into tears in the middle of the street? That he didn't expect.

Harvey is bewildered. His thoughts were on cases and his two o'clock meeting and picking up another carton of milk at the store. This…to him, Mike's breakdown's come out of nowhere. He scrutinizes his body for any sign of injury, _something_ that could have set him off, and finds nothing.

The man's at a total loss.

Then it occurs to him that he's standing stock-still smack bam in the middle of a _very_ busy street, with a bawling toddler glued to his leg, with dark glowers being chucked his way left, right, and centre, and he's doing…nothing, absolutely nothing to fix it.

Feeling clumsy and incompetent, Harvey gathers up the young child—who, at this point in time, bears scarce resembles to his pesky, bustling associate—and lowers him against his pressed suit.

Mike needs little prompting.

He flings his arms around Harvey's neck, squeezing in what feels like a darn choke-hold, and wraps his legs around his waist, sobbing harder. His cheeks are drenched in tears, large blue eyes wide and dewy as he peeps up at Harvey's surprisingly anxious face (peppered with an even more uncharacteristic insecurity). A rope of snot dangles from his nostril; he dreads to think what a sight he must look. Surprisingly, though, this is only the fifth most embarrassing thing that's happened to him today.

This fact is hammered home by the thumb which soon creeps into his mouth.

Likewise, Harvey is kinda, a little bit freaking out. "Hey, hey," he gentles his voice. How do other people calm their kids? Think. _Think_! "It's okay. Let's take some deep breaths together, whaddya say? Blow all that terrible, bad air out of our bodies. That'll make you feel so much better, won't it? Come on. We'll do it together."

He takes an exaggerated, deep breath, then puffs out his chest, smile tinged with relief as Mike attempts to mimic.

The relief doesn't long, though. Because some heartless ass-hat just has to go and bump into them, grumbling about something or another, and sets off another outpour of waterworks.

Harvey, to his credit, doesn't retaliate. (Okay, so he casts a furious glare the man's away that has him positively cowering, snot-splattered suit and all, but that's _all_ ). He bounces and shushes and pets Mike's head. He keeps his priorities straight.

"Really living up to the nickname, aren't ya, pup?" he wryly remarks, holding a small smile.

He must look some sight. Walking up and down the frenzied street in his fancy power suit, joggling a screaming toddler, said toddler's diaper bag—er, messenger bag, and begging his briefcase not to slip from between his bicep and ribs and crash to the ground. (After all, it may not be nearly as faulty as that shitty-ass excuse for a briefcase Mike had brought to his interview all those months ago, but he doesn't trust it not to crack open with a bang and spew mountains worth of confidential legal documents containing very, _very_ sensitive information).

Hours—it must be hours—later, Mike finally settles. They're late for work, but if Jessica could forgive him for missing meeting after initiating another round of morning sex with some stranger he picked up at a bar, then she can damn well forgive this, too.

With the storm having passed, Mike sags sluggishly over his shoulder and sniffles beneath the shell of Harvey's ear. Harvey bounces him once more, turns his head and plants a kiss amongst the wispy mop of hair. Then, he has no idea what possesses him, but…he feels compelled to boop the hiccuping terror on his gross, snotty little button nose. (Maybe, _maybe_ , he'll acknowledge later, it was that same part of him from earlier; desperate to wring a smile out of the poor little fella).

Mike leans out of the way and giggles—No, seriously. _Giggles_. The sweetest, bubbliest widdle giggle you've ever heard.

Abruptly, he stills, eyes widening in shock and slapping a hand over his mouth.

But Harvey's already taken note.

And he's instantly smitten.

He grins. Without even pausing to think about what he's doing, Harvey stretches his neck and brushes his nose against the boy's, before crooking a finger and attacking the exposed skin of his neck.

Mike _erupts_.

Harvey tickles every conceivable sweet spot with vigour—underarms, sides, wherever elicits the biggest reaction.

He's chortling, breathless with laughter. "Pl-he-he-he-hease," Mike stutters out, wheezing, unable to process that _Harvey Specter_ is clowning around like this with _him_. His cheeks hurt from the duration of his helpless grin. "Ssss—st—ttop!"

"What was that?" Harvey halts to fake a frown and cup a hand over his ear, even as he jiggles Mike's tiny physique, now tensed up with delight as opposed to terror. "You want me to keep going? Okie dokie. No problemo."

"Nn-n-nnn- _noohoohoo_!" Mike cackles, writhing. He's completely at the older man's mercy.

With a grin seemingly larger than life, Harvey finally puts him out of his misery, ceasing his ambush. He rakes his fingers through Mike's blonde locks to smooth them down and scritches lightly. He rights the toddler's rumpled clothes, not sparing a single thought to his own.

Feeling giddy, Mike ducks his chin, practically gurgling between laboured pants. It's…that laugh…

It's freakin' magical; whisking away every inch of tension from both males' bodies. Suddenly, it's the single greatest sound in the whole wide world. And Harvey knows, more surely than he's ever known anything, that he would go to ends of the earth, do everything in his power—including making a complete and utter fool outta himself in front every single rival attorney in the state—just to hear Mike laugh like that one more time.

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_Thanks for reading._

_Remember, the fluff in this fic is progressive, so though it may be distributed in small-ish doses now, soon it will be so fluff-ridden and teeth-rottenly sweet that you will be begging for angst. You little sadists._

_Also, sorry, don't mean to confuse anyone, with the timeline being a little jumbled in this one. Hope you don't mind._


	4. Half the Battle

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**CHAPTER THREE:**

Half the Battle

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews. It's great to hear you're enjoying the story. I'll try not to let anyone down too much.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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"So, what you're saying is, despite bearing my name, boasting a rather unfavourable shot of my face, and the trivial little fact that I've been using it daily for over half a decade, it's _yours_ , right?"

Mike is unfazed. "Yeah."

Harvey laughs. "You wish, kiddo," he snorts, letting him slide down to the floor and tousling the boy's hair, smoothing a thumb over his ear, before taking his hand in his. But he lets the kid look after the ID badge and even pass it over to the security guard on duty. Anything that helps him avoid another meltdown is good in his books.

After the fiasco on the street, he's resolved to be decidedly more cautious from here on out. The more time he spends with toddler Mike, the more Harvey realises that the former associate _is_ a toddler. He doesn't just dwell in the body of one. With every passing minute, he _becomes_ one, with hints of the older Mike shinning through.

The remainder of their excursion was suffused with diversions. A cheap tactic, perhaps. But it worked.

"Look at the bus," Harvey pointed out one-handed as Mike curled under his chin, sucking on his thumb.

And: "Did you see the doggie? That was a big doggie, wasn't it?"

"And keecat," Mike bashfully added, without removing the digit.

"Was there? I didn't see any kitty cats. A _smaller_ doggie, maybe."

This was a delicate balance, though. At one stage, Harvey called attention to a passing fire truck, sirens blaring, red and blue lights whirling, but Mike was a split-second too slow to pull his head away from the man's shoulder and soon started snivelling, "I wanididid to see 'ire uck!"

It took five more doggies for the youngster to put it behind them.

So, here they are. About to begin their first day at the firm as Harvey with the Clueless Dad, who took in Mike the Miraculous Tot, trying not make this any more arduous than it has to be.

What Harvey doesn't realise is that things are about to go from bad to worse.

As soon as they step off on their floor, the duo instantly become the subjects of gawking, incredulous stares and burgeoning whispers. Mike stays close to Harvey, fisting his hands in his pants leg and refusing to let go, making for an awfully awkward gait. His big blue eyes are discomfited and fearful, scurrying around the sea of faces and taking everything in. He is at once overwhelmed by not only the throngs of people and being the hub of everyone's curiosity, but the enormity of the building itself.

Harvey is reminded of his earlier vow. And he knows that, if ever Mike needed a distraction, it would be unquestionably at this moment, when his attention is being jerked around by a whiteout of stimuli.

Reputation be damned. Mike needs this.

The _kid_ aspect needs this; the adult side would be mortified. But, let's be honest, which would he prefer? Harvey playing for laughs and making him gurgle up to high dough, or bursting into tears in the presence of all his former colleagues?

If anything, _Harvey_ is the one who should be embarrassed. He doesn't have the excuse of navigating newfound toddler-ism like some people.

Knowing he can't put it off any longer, if Mike's nervous lip-biting is any indication, Harvey grabs hold of the two-year old's other hand and positions the boy in front of him, disregarding his scrunched up features.

Mike, for his part, is utterly perplexed. And not at all prepared for what happens next.

Harvey widens his stance, sends him a roguish smirk, and suddenly there's a funny feeling rushing through his gut as he's lightly swung between the senior partner's legs— _in public_. For the second time in under an hour, Mike finds himself losing control to irrepressible peals of laughter.

He's giggling like mad, barely catching his breath, and Mike soon forgets all about his self-consciousness.

Yet again, he's caught off-guard, when, out of the blue, Harvey switches up the game and tosses him over his shoulders, hooking his hands firmly around his ankles and jiggling the shrieking boy. Mike squeals ecstatically, uncaring of where he is, or who the hell hears him, as he's bounced against the older man's back.

His gaiety must be contagious, because not only is Harvey grinning mega-huge and chuckling under his breath, so are many of the partners, diverse range of employees who sidestep out of their way, and then associates they pass along the bullpen.

His upside down piggyback ride lasts all the way to the office and the lawyer gets down on one knee and lets go of one leg in order to gently take his hand and help him safely down, identical grins splitting both males' faces. Mike tries to stand, but staggers, woozy from all the blood rushing to his head. Harvey steadies him, placing one hand on his back and another on his hip, but the tot recovers quickly. As payback, he summons a challenging smirk and suddenly pushes off, booking it to the secretary's vacant post, Harvey giving chase.

He ducks beneath the desk and swoops out of the path of Harvey's quick hands, scampering between the swivel chair and under his boss' legs. He runs rings around Donna's station, sniggering manically, tossing a taunting glance behind him, too, as if to say, _Na na na na, try and catch me,_ until, finally, Harvey crouches down and opens out his arms and Mike has no chance to decelerate before he barrels smack into his chest.

The arms close around him in what feels suspiciously like a tight hug.

"Gotcha," Harvey triumphantly crows, laughing. "You little rascal!" He shakes him vigorously, tickling under his arms, and leans in close to pretend to sink his teeth into his ear.

Mike dodges the move with a good-natured squeal, so he tweaks his nose and grins, instead.

They both freeze at the sound of a throat clearing.

"Hiya, boys. I see you got here in piece," Donna says levelly, grinning as she comes up behind them. Beside her stands one deeply amused managing partner, with her arms crossed and one brow raised at their antics. "Jessica stopped by to check that everything was alright. Wasn't that nice of her?"

"Seems as though my worries were unfounded," Jessica observes.

Harvey's mouth open and closes.

A lawyer's best friend, it has been said, can usually be whittled down to little more than this: _plausible deniability_. There are few greater words in the English language.

Unfortunately, plausible deniability doesn't work so well when you've been caught in the act.

"Someone's chirpy this morning," Donna comments, far too nonchalant. "May I ask what happened to prompt…this?" She waves a hand.

He resolves not to look at her. "You may not," he says.

"Your tie's lopsided."

"Is it?"

"Uh-huh. Plus, that shirt doesn't look like it's been ironed," she muses, like a blood hound on the hunt.

"Well, I assure you, it has," Harvey answers, releasing Mike and scratching the back of his neck. The toddler wastes no time scurrying off to the safety of his office. _Traitor_.

"What happened to your hair?"

"Oh, that? It was…windy."

"Alright, enough with the whole nonchalant act. You're terrible at it," the redhead complains with Mike out of earshot, like a keyed up schoolgirl itching for the latest gossip. "What _happened_?"

"I…uh, may have gotten a little carried away this morning," Harvey admits, refusing to even glance at the managing partner.

"Carried away?" Donna echoes, eyes narrowing. Figures she'd catch the deeper meaning. "With what?"

"Nothing. Something." Harvey shakes his head. "I dunno. Why does it matter?"

"It _matters_ ," she persists, "because you're flustered. You never get flustered."

"I'm not- "

"It's over, Specter. Fess up."

Cringing both outwardly and inwardly, Harvey confesses, "I may have…tickled Mike. Before." He swallows hard. "On the street. Out in the open."

Donna hums thoughtfully. "Uh-huh. And what did Mike think of this?"

"He- " Harvey cuts off. "Look. It happened. Get over it. Can we not…do this?"

"Oh, Harvey," Donna sighs, laying a hand on shoulder. "You emotionally stunted little man." She smiles at him waaaayyyy too gently for his taste. "Admit it."

"Admit what?" he asks, voice stiff with defensiveness.

"Admit," she beams, "you're loving this."

"He does seem to be loving it," Jessica agrees. Gah, he hates when they gang up on him.

"You just wanna hug 'em and luv 'em- "

"Stop it," grumbles Harvey. "That's not- "

"- and all that lovie dovie stuffie wuff." At his dark glower, she laughs. "Don't worry," Donna placates, raising her hands in surrender. "I'll keep your secret."

"Oh, yeah? And what secret is that?"

"That the big, bag heartless lawyer secretly has a big, bad lawyer heart."

"What are you talking ab- ?"

"Oh, yeah?" Her curved brows are irksomely mocking. "Does the phrase _'giddy up, cowboy'_ ring any bells?"

"You saw that?"

" _Filmed_ it."

Giving both women a look of disbelief, Harvey grouses, "You were behind us that whole time?"

Her shrug is just this side of enigmatic. "Never thought I'd see the day _you_ were roughhousing."

"Shut up."

"What? A little rough and tumble never hurt anyone."

"Seriously."

"How much would it take for me to get you to wear a cowboy hat?"

"I mean it."

"What about a whip?" Harvey starts walking away. "Steel-toed boots?" Donna calls after him, sharing a grin with Jessica. "How about a red bandana? I think it would look great with your bone structure! At least say you'll consider it!"

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"Watch it. You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up…"

Despite Harvey's warnings, Mike spins around and around in circles that grow more lumbering by the minute. It comes as no surprise when he tumbles over after getting light-headed.

Thankfully, the fall is cushioned by the slim padding of his pull-up, so the lawyer is saved from an outburst of snot and tears, though it means Mike requires less and less time to regroup. He's up and at it again in under a minute, flipping over and chortling as he gazes up at Harvey the wrong way up.

"You're a little devil," Harvey tells him as he shuffles some papers on his desk and tries to ignore the twinkle-eyed pup giggling up at him.

However, he's forced to intervene when Mike starts scaling the shelves hosting his record collection. This only leads him down a path he hopes he never has to revisit.

"I going to scare you, and when I say, 'boo!' you have to say, ' _ahhhhh!_ '" Mike informs him, adopting a high-pitched girlish scream, but holding an incredibly serious stare. "Do that."

He returns his stare, and the longer they stand there, locked in a battle of wits, the more Harvey feels something inside him give. He reluctantly gives his consent, curbing a sigh and rubbing a hand over his eye.

Mike hunkers down behind the chaise longue and proceeds to pretend he's invisible—or is it that he has fallen into the common trap of ' _if_ _I can't see them, they can't see me?'_ —as he waits for the ideal moment to stage his ambush.

Donna keeps a pensive eye on the two from her desk, listening in on their role-playing over the intercom.

It's more than a little amusing to see Harvey being told, in no uncertain terms, how Mike wants their game to play out. _Like a goddamn boss._ Hands on his hips and all.

 _"_ _Help me,_ _"_ Harvey mouths, catching her eye, while redhead simply coughs to smother an amused snicker.

"It's your fault," she shrugs. "You're the one that had to go and get him all riled up."

This continues for a while. When Mike knocks two of his precious signed basketballs over and bangs himself on the forehead, to Donna's shock, Harvey doesn't freak out. He doesn't scowl or scold. Doesn't even glance in their direction, thumping around and rolling along the wall. He rushes over to comfort Mike, immediately picking him up and enveloping him in a warm hug.

"Shhh," he soothes, "It's alright." Without hesitating, he presses a soft kiss to the bruised spot. "That's why we don't remove them from their stands, see? So nosy little puppies don't get hurt. They're too heavy for you."

It's…sweet. Really sweet.

And more than a little surprising coming from the man who just last week yelled at that very same associate for little more than staring longingly at them from across the room.

When he's decided he's done jumping out at people, Mike takes Harvey's hand and drags him over to clear coffee table by the couch and pushes him down one of the armchairs with the leather upholstery. He then clambers up onto the chair beside him, folding his legs underneath himself, half-sitting on top of Harvey, and snatches the colouring book Donna bought from the dollar store, opening at a fresh page and thrusting a broken purple crayon into the man's hand.

He taps the stub of the crayon against his lips, looking deep in thought, before beginning to fill in the blank space of a happy, bubble-blowing goldfish. Doesn't matter that goldfish are gold. This one's destined to be a gaudy shade of pink. Harvey watches him colour for a minute or two, before Mike sends him a look, like, _'Well? What are you waiting for?'_ and he takes the opposite side—a _My Little Pony_ outline. Fantastic. Harvey resigns himself to shading in the Applesauce, or Rainbow Jack, or whatever, horsy, and lowers his limp crayon to scratch at the crisp paper.

The pair work in silence. Mike peeks over every so often to verify he's not slacking off. Before long, he starts saying things like, "Red," or, "Boo," holding out an open palm for Harvey to drop the elected crayon into. It's kinda hilarious. Like he's an elite neurosurgeon performing life-saving surgery asking Harvey to pass the scalpel. Each time he assents, Mike will curl his fingers around the thin crayon and flash him a grin. It's nice. They've got a strange sort of kinship going.

At some point, however, Mike starts squirming. At first, Harvey thinks it's because he's growing restless sitting still for too long, so pays it no heed. He figures he'll get up and sprint around if he needs to. And that's part of it. But…

Cheeks pink and face crumpled, he does this wriggly, little dance— _like a yucky, wriggly worm_ , something twitters in the back of the toddler's mind—vibrating on the chair and curling and uncurling his toes. He pushes a hand against his crotch. His mouth falls opens, but, in that moment, he is utterly unable to properly articulate his needs. He makes a sort of whimpering sound, born out of frustration and desperation, which instantly causes Harvey to swivel around to face him, brows furrowed in concern.

Evaluating the little boy's stance, he quickly hazards a guess at the reason for his discomfort.

"What?" he laughs, not taking it seriously at first. His smile is teasing. "Have to go pee pee?" That's when he takes in Mike's flushed face and clenched squirming, and panics. "Wait, really?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares up at him and nibbles on the side of his lip with this guilty little expression on his face.

"Hafta go really, really bad," Mike admits, eventually.

"Then why the hel-ck didn't you say something sooner?"

He gives a pained shrug. "Didn't know I had to. Will...will 'oo tome, too?"

Harvey arches a brow. "To the bathroom?"

Mike fidgets, forcing himself to meet his eyes. "Peas?"

Exhaling heavily, he kneads his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. "Fine. Whatever."

"And up?"

Harvey rolls his eyes. What does it say about him that he already knows what that means? "If it'll shut you up."

Mike smiles gratefully as he's swiftly scooped up and transported, but winces as the jerky movements put undue pressure on his bladder.

He ushers the kid into the nearest bathroom and bangs open a stall door, lowering the boy to the tiles. Oozing discomfort, Harvey shoves his hands in his pockets and feels his lip curl just being in this cesspool of germs. Does he—should he go? He _wants_ to. But it feels like that might be a sucky move on his part, what with Mike trusting him not to let him get swallowed up by potty water or some shit.

But the kid doesn't move. Just squirms some more and looks more frantic than before.

"Well?" he prompts. Mike glances at him in disbelief. He can't seriously expect him to just drop his drawers right there! Hop onboard the public humiliation train! Why not? _It_ _'_ _ll be fun!_

Yeah. He'd rather not.

"I…I tan't just _go_ with 'oo standing there!" he cries, indignant.

"Want me to turn around?"

" _Yes_ …no…" He shrugs, shoulders stiff. "Maybe." As he'd suspected, the toilet is too high for him to manage unassisted. It towers above him, all-powerful and strapping and utterly majestic.

He's taken aback by a pang of fear.

What if something snags his leg and yanks him in? What if he _falls_ in?

Mike shrinks back behind Harvey's legs and whines softly. Crap, he forgot about Mike's poor history with bathrooms. Should've known something would go wrong.

Harvey groans. "What is it now? You can't possibly be afraid of the potty, are you?"

"N-no," he scoffs. "Jut…" Mike fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "Help me."

 _How?_ Harvey wants to ask. But there's not much point. He knows what the answer will be.

Careful not to startle the toddler by any rapid movements and scare him off the 'Big Boy' potty forever, Harvey kneels down beside him and wrestles down his pants and dry pull-up in a clumsy, amateurish way that speaks of his uncertainty, tugging them down the two-year old, podgy legs until they pool at his ankles.

He pops the youngster onto the lid and braces a hand on his shoulder to avoid any unfortunate topples, who, in spite of his earlier trepidation, sits quite contently and before long is humming what appears to be a made-up tune. He idly kicks his feet as a slow trickle is produced, followed by a hot spurt and a few dribbles and… _you_ _'_ _ve gotta be kidding me_. He's done.

Mike sighs in relief.

"That's it?" Harvey questions, disgruntled. " _Seriously_?"

Smiling, Mike confirms with a happy, "Uh-huh," and a nod, before hopping down and letting Harvey pull up his stretchy pants and disposable underwear. For all of the urgency, he'd expected something a bit more…substantial.

Harvey can tell the automated flush startles him slightly, though he hides it well. Scooping the youngster up and carting him over to the sinks, he twists the tap and checks the temperature of the water first, before allowing Mike to dip his hands in. He punches the soap dispenser and assists Mike in lathering up his hands with the strawberry-scented suds and rinsing them off. Through hand-washing regimen, he lectures about bacteria and germs and the magic _15-30 second_ scrubbing rule and it occurs to him that Mike knows all of this and doesn't _need_ his commentary, but Mike's nodding along and he _looks_ interested, so…It's all good?

Mike insists on being put down so that he can dash over to the hand blower. He waves an arm to get it started and Harvey stifles a guffaw when he recoils at being hit by the first blast. What did he expect?

"Loud!" he shouts in explanation, slapping his wet hands over his ears. Mike cranes his neck to gaze up into the belly of the beast, large eyes beginning to water from a lethal combination of the cool air and slack-jawed horror.

Feeling his heart squeeze, in juxtaposition to his wry expression, Harvey hauls him away from the scary appliance and pilfers a paper towel to daub his mostly dried hands.

"Do you have to go?" Mike asks innocently, while he rubs his fingers down and drops the torn ball of paper into the waste bin.

"No," Harvey says patiently, one corner of his lip curving. "I'm fine, thank-you."

He nods, appeased. Then his mind clearly wanders once again and he resumes singing that same made-up song of before.

At least this promises to be entertaining. One thing's for sure: They'll never be a dull moment with this little scamp around.

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Thing is: in the myriad of times Mike has walked across the rich carpet of Harvey's office, he has never enjoyed skin contact with the yielding, twisted tufts, nor has he had the pleasure of encountering the metallic, hand-woven yarn of his soft rug firsthand (the shoes were the first thing to go upon entry, followed closely by his cotton socks). He'd never experienced the minor discomfort of a small, itchy rash and bumpy hives breaking out along his neckline from scratchy lint-coated fibres tickling his chin after rolling around on the floor for too long—give or take an hour or two. Never sneezed at the silt of grit and dust, causing Donna to bite back an enormous beam and make weird, choked, squealing noises like she can't believe how completely and utterly precious he is.

Never before has Mike been this intimate with the snug space beneath Harvey's desk where he's close enough to spot the faded coffee stain in the shade and marvel how _open_ and _roomy_ it is. It's more than twice the size of him! He could lie under here all day, flat on his back with his arms outstretched like he's preparing to make the perfect snow angel.

But he won't.

'Cause, see, the other thing is: he's having a _liiiitttle_ trouble staying still.

Charged up on freedom, over-stimulation, a world ripe with possibility and a tremendous thirst to conquer this 'new' office (defiant in the face of three 'sugar-free' apple juice-boxes), Mike swings around the floor lamp like he's Gene Kelly in singin' in the frickin' rain and wriggles into the wire trash can to rummage around, tipping both toddler and trash over in the process. It mostly consists of crumpled up wads of paper and wispy shreds of documents, though there is the odd used napkin, crushed styrofoam container, and a putrid banana peel he has to shake off his head. But Mike doesn't let some smelly, several-days-old rotting fruit carcass slow him down. _Oh, no._

His short stature keeps him closer to all the action. Basically eye-level with all the interesting stuff. Harvey's minimalist design can't save him now. Everything is too shiny and beguiling. The surfeit of sports memorabilia calls to him.

Sleek tempered glass that holds intriguing shapes in the light and invites a rainbow of colours to spool across its surfaces. Stainless steel along the furniture which warps his reflection and leaves long-lasting smudges with every touch. Grows foggy when he breathes on it. How can he resist that?

Mike's like a little tornado whizzing around, bumping into shelves and tumbling files, thumbing through Harvey's prized albums and wrecking through drawers, cracking open cabinets and mysterious doors and peering into things he shouldn't be. Chucking items carelessly behind him and leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.

You may think he is climbing and jabbing and knocking all kinds of priceless antiques over purely in the name of boredom. Or impulsivity. Whichever. But you would be wrong. And stupid.

Though to the naked eye it may _look_ senseless and arbitrary, truth is, every inconsiderate emptying of heavy, jam-packed containers and dumping out reams of alphabetically organised, colour-coded binders is _essential_ to the integrity of his overall findings. Believe it or not, Mike isn't just lining up stationery in order of biggest to smallest for the sheer fun of it. Though, yeah—that, too. It has a _purpose_. What purpose, you ask? That remains to be seen. But he's convinced it must have one. Otherwise, what reason would he feel so compelled to do so?

However, the other, other thing is: strangely enough, Harvey…doesn't approve.

He is under the quite frankly insane impression that Mike's inquisitive archaeological investigation and critical research is some sort of nuisance or something. That all Mike's efforts are for nought, with the sole target of constructing a big, messy _mess_. Which is totally crazy, right? What an outrageous and dishonourable accusation to hurl at the youngster's strong work ethic and cavernous appetite for the hard facts and practical data. How _wide of the mark_ can you get? Puts Harvey's people reading skills to shame.

He's just having a good time. An _educational_ time. Doesn't that count for something?

He's learning, isn't he? How else would Harvey have known about that mouldy, half-eaten sandwich he recalls losing nine Tuesdays ago if it weren't for him—quite literally—sniffing it out, eh? He should be _thanking_ him. Not rushing him off to the bathroom to scrub thirty layers of skin off his hands while gagging uncontrollably, dangling the bewildered boy over the sink with a queasy green tinge to his complexion not unlike the crusty mottled exterior of the inedible bread, as he suffocates Mike's flaming red hands within his mammoth ones and viciously rubs—the callused labour akin to that of a prehistoric caveman attempting to strike a smoking fire using only human flesh, friction and a fountain of soapy water at variance with the end goal. Even so, judging by the state of Mike's sizzling hands—good job, buddy, _you succeeded._

It's all so exciting and draining, and all he wants is to innocuously poke and probe and study everything in the vicinity, but Harvey seems wholly determined to rain on his fact-finding parade.

He freaks out when all Mike wants to do is show Harvey how amazing he is at running and jumping and standing on his head against the cushions and rolly-pollying off the couch.

He keeps getting in the way and plucking up all the prickly brass thumbtacks that are pinging around the floor, even when he could clearly see that Mike had overturned the little box on purpose and is using them to create an awesome work of art.

He sweeps all his office supplies into his drawer with a level, horizontal hand closely resembling the blade of an evil human bulldozer, and jams it shut. Talk about _mean_. Now his inventory of pointy things that are fun to touch and cool stuff to revisit later will forever be stamped 'incomplete.' (Nonetheless, the simple act of locking him out does stir quite the suspicion and Mike decides that that treasure trove junk drawer of unmined gems must be bursting to the seams with extraordinary, perhaps even _dangerous_ forbidden items that he fully intends to meet. He'll need to set aside a day or two when Harvey's otherwise occupied to break into that hair-raising gift to humanity.)

"Contrary to popular belief, my office is not a jungle gym," he protests when Mike mounts the couch to bust out his dance moves—which wasn't his fault, by the way. If Harvey didn't want him dancing, he should never have put on a jazzy record with the pretext of 'concentrating' and 'drowning out hyperactive-demon-Mike'—pushing away from his desk and lifting him down without warning (which…. _heelllooo? Ever heard of a thing called personal space?)._ "Knock it off before you slip and bust your head open."

The only reason Mike doesn't kick up more of a fuss about it is 'cause Harvey does sort of look equal parts exasperated and concerned, and, well, the throw cushions were leaping into the air with each bounce and some had eventually been bumped to the floor, so maybe it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility to claim all that bouncing would eventually lead to a graceless fall. Thus, Mike opts to be gracious and let him off the hook.

But wait. There's more.

Not only does Harvey fail to correctly appreciate Mike's aptitude for vacuuming up stray staples, push pins and paper clips on the floor and returning them to his possession, he has the cheek to get _mad_ about it, too. What the hell? Mike tries to do the decent thing and make up for all that 'messing' he was apparently doing earlier, and this is how he gets repaid?

"Jesus, Mike!" his boss exclaims for the millionth, billionth time. Well, Mike is getting sick of it. "Spit that out. What did I tell you? You can't, _you can't_ , put whatever dirty, disgusting crap you stumble across in your mouth. Not only are you gobbling up all of those yummy, delicious germs I was telling you about, but you could choke or otherwise seriously harm yourself. You know better than this." The creases around his uneasy brown eyes pinch. "Shouldn't you know better than this?"

That last question seems to be more directed towards himself than at Mike as the two-year old obediently onto the man's outward palm. Harvey grimaces as he scrapes the slimy rubber band into the (recently righted) trash can. Taking hold of the scowling boy's head (after first confirming there's nothing else lurking in there. Like, he doesn't know, an unlucky penny or goddamn radioactive pencil sharpener), he guides it into an sideward position. "Open up."

"No," Mike huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling very put out by Harvey's admonishment.

"Don't make me ask again, Mike. Open. Up."

Acquiescing with a red-hot glower aimed directly into the stooped down senior partner's eyes, Mike feels Harvey's sizeable finger broach his poky mouth and skims the soft gum as he checks for cuts or dots of blood or any other kind of damage. "This is the last time we're gonna do this, you hear me?" he says, after he's satisfied there's no serious harm done. "I don't wanna have this conversation again."

Mike continues to glare. "Just 'cause I littler doesn't mean you get to boss me round."

"That's exactly what it means," Harvey replies easily, nonplussed. "Pretty sure I could trust adult Mike not to cram a Sharpie up his nose. You? I'm not so sure."

"I's _am_ adult Mike," he fires back scathingly, hands balling up into fists. The older man's expression immediately gentles.

"Maybe in here," he raps a knuckle lightly on his temple. "But not nearly as much as there's a mischievous little tot taking up residence in there." Harvey pokes his chest, over his heart, and Mike's not entirely sure he catches his meaning, but he _knows_ , one way or another, he should be insulted.

That may be why the calm doesn't last. That, or, you know, research.

See, along Harvey's window space he's got a few odds and ends. Autographed baseballs in glass casings, crystal awards bestowed upon the firm, some weird round thing that resembles a hamster ball; you know the drill. And among those invaluable odds and ends rests one exquisite magnum opus of model replicas: a motorcycle.

A timeless motorcycle.

A humbling little mini-motorcycle with breathtakingly meticulous markings and highly detailed, functioning parts, it incorporates a working gear stick, brake levers and real spoke wheels, as well as boasting a neat seat suspension, spring loaded moveable kick starter and accelerator handle. Mint condition, it's a collector's dream.

He's spent a _long_ time staring at that goddamn motorcycle.

It is a piece of art any motor enthusiast would die for. And he's not even a fan. It must've cost Harvey a small fortune.

No matter how badly he'd been tempted to fiddle with the vintage model in the past, Mike never did. Which was no small feat, let me tell you. The one time he grazed his index along the original metal chain, Harvey had been swift to swipe it right outta his hands and bark, "Hey! Get your grubby paws off of that! That's a 1932 Brough Superior SS 100 T.E. Lawrence Minichamps. _You_ don't get to touch."

Baffled, he'd blurted, "A _what_?"

His pitiful lack of knowledge around the lifelike model of what is universally regarded as the world's most famous motorcycle only caused the man to roll his eyes so hard Mike thought they'd plop right out and mutter, "I swear, you have _no_ appreciation for the classics," as he turned back and set it down in place with bizarre care and attention to detail.

Yet, his meek yearning of before is nothing compared to the burning desire he fights now.

Well, enough is enough.

He's done holding back.

He _will_ touch it, dammit, if that's the last thing he does.

Recognising that single-minded spark in his eye, Harvey attempts to distract him with a few sheets of paper and a pot of crap he steals from Donna's desk, even sacrifices one of his snazzy fountain pens he'd seen him eying up earlier, but Mike's focus is elsewhere.

Or, to be more precise, zeroed in on one particular somewhere.

He abandons the spot by the low coffee table where he's been kneeling half-heartedly coasting a yellow/black-tarnished marker across the page, and lopes over to window shelf.

"Ever notice 'oo don't have any pers'nal photographs?"

"I have, actually. That _was_ the intention," remarks the senior partner, ever so blandly. He carries on kneading his temples. "Have you _seen_ Louis' office? Place is like a goddamn shrine. Pretty sure the only picture _not_ of him is that creepy, oval-shaped cat." He side-eyes him warily. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing." Mike shrugs, the picture of innocence. Ever so casually, he changes the subject. "What that?" He stretches up and points to the congratulatory plaque gathering dust, despite being very much up-to-date on every last elegantly engraved letter. They've been there as long as he remember. Plus, it's not like he can't read. He hasn't forgotten—yet. Yet?

That's a terrifying thought.

"Those are meaningless platitudes nobody gives a shit about. Purely decorative, I assure you."

"And that?"

"Speakers. That low buzzing noise didn't give it away?" Harvey presents him with his patented 'what an idiot' look and rolls his eyes, before returning to leafing through the slanted pile of files in front of him. "Got any other stray observations you'd like to point out? Any further stupid questions eating away at that big brain of yours, by any chance?"

"Nope," he chirrups, too cheerful, it seems, for Harvey's ballooning headache.

"Alright." He nods, suddenly decisive. "Here's what you're gonna do: lie down, close your eyes, and pretend to be—hell, I don't know. Sleeping beauty or some Disney-ish bullshit. Just, for the love of God, please _sit at peace_. That's the moral of the story here."

The toddler merely pouts, having tuned out moment the phrase 'close your eyes' was verbalised. "Not tired."

Harvey slumps, holding his head in his hands. "I can see that. Just…keep it down, will you? And no more daredevil stunts or stuffing our oesophagus with discarded office junk, got it? Can we at least come to an understanding on that?"

"Otay." He smiles sweetly at him, _whatever you say_ ; half to reassure and half because he's beginning to suspect that doing so will cause a damn meadow's worth of fuzzy, feely bunnies to breed in Harvey's chest.

Mike waits until he's positive Harvey's fully immersed in his work and suitably persuaded of Mike's pledge of good behaviour and conveniently short attention span. Little does he know that, while it is true that toddlers are easily distracted from time to time, once something has truly caught their interest, rarely do they ever forget about it. Become temporarily otherwise engaged, yes. Have their plans delayed by naptime or a never-before-seen episode of Sesame Street—oh, all the time. But they don't forget. Nothing simply 'slips' from their mind. Whether it be at 3 AM while they're demanding you check under the bed one more time or between snack times when they're pondering what to do next, the banished thought _will_ return and their tricks will begin anew.

And in this instance, Mike only has to give the ruse of being scatterbrained. In reality, he never let his eyes off the prize.

Unluckily for him, somewhat ironically, the one thing he neglected to account for was the fact that he is, well, a toddler. And as such, it is rather difficult for him to physically connect with the coveted article due to, uh, unforeseen height-related complications. He makes a grab for it, improvises with a vital booster-jump, but mustn't be as subtle as he would have wished, because not one instant later, Mike starts at the sharp reprimand, "Put that down!" Harvey stands quickly and yanks the motorcycle away from the two-year old's treacherous hands. "That's it," the frazzled senior partner declares. "First thing tomorrow, I am doing some serious toddler-proofing. You are impossible! I can't look away for two seconds…"

Well, things would go a lot smoother if he'd quit interfering, and Mike grumbles as much.

"Interfering? _Interfering_?" His voice is packed with disbelief. "I'm no doubt the only reason you're still alive! Here's an idea," comes Harvey's increasingly aggravated retort. "Rather than scaring me half to death every 0.2 milliseconds acting like a goddamn lunatic, why don't you sit over there, away from all the pointy objects and newly high altitude, and be quiet, while I gleefully ignore you? As I'd initially planned."

"That _boring_."

"And that's my problem," he prompts, condescending hand gestures included, "how?"

"'Cause I _booorrred_ ," Mike mulishly repeats in the sulkiest whine he can manage, making it abundantly clear to both himself and Harvey that this is very much Harvey's problem if he values his eardrums. Or their sanity.

"Look." He refrains from showing any outward signs of displeasure. "Let me put this in layman terms, okay? Maybe then you'll understand. Have I ever given you the impression that this is a toy? No? Then can you please, _please_ wait until Donna comes back with the _actual_ ones?"

Mike's lips are trembling before he knows it, because instant-tears are a thing, apparently. "T-toys?" he says in a small, semi-hopeful voice, wiping his nose hard.

"Yes," Harvey sighs. "Actual toys. Where do you think she's been all morning?"

"I - I dunno?" Honestly, Mike had forgotten she'd left. Wasn't she at her desk, like, three seconds ago? He could've sworn…

"Probably shoulda mentioned that, huh? Well, I wasn't altogether oblivious of your need for amusement, kiddo. I knew you'd need something to keep yourself entertained. So I sent her to pick up some bits and pieces. She should be back before lunch."

Knuckling his eyes, Mike asks, "When that?"

He pulls back his sleeve to check his watch. "Little over an hour. I guess I underestimated the lengths you'd go for stimulation. In the meantime…whaddya say we call a truce? Be…civil."

"Yeah?" The boy sniffs bitterly again for good measure. "How you s'ppose we do that?"

"Stop…arguing?"

"Uh-huh," Mike says dubiously.

"It's not that hard. I'll be nice." At the tot's drier than ice look, he insists, "I can be nice! Look. So long as you promise to shut it, I'll give you a lollipop or something. Deal?" The bribe is met with a blasé stare- these oddly hypnotizing, dead eyes which are grotty with disinterest and one slow blink away from teenage-level master sass."You're right," Harvey concedes. "I can do better than that. I'll do _nice_. No, really. I'll prove it." Taking a deep breath, he pats his thigh and requests, "Sit with me."

Mike's eyes bug out of their sockets and he wonders if Harvey is seriously suggesting what he thinks he's suggesting. "What?"

"You heard me." Harvey doesn't flinch. "Sit up here with me and , because if this morning has shown us anything it's that you should not be left to your own devices and I was wrong not to offer an alternative. Provided you behave, I'll even let you…help."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I know that sounds weird, but—"

But he is forced to cut off because Mike's already heaving himself up onto his knee.

He doesn't care about violating boundaries and the realities of freely sitting in a man's lap. All he's concerned about is gaining access to the unfathomable holy ground that is Harvey's desk. One of the many drawbacks to being stripped of his six-foot status is his inability to easily step into a room and instantly get a general gist of what's going on or what kind of mood the senior partner's in by taking one glance at his workspace. That's something he'd always taken for granted before. He's been wanting to know what's being going on up there all morning! Something exciting, for sure.

Preoccupied by the open folders and glowing laptop screen as he is, Mike doesn't notice how Harvey wraps an arm around his waist to anchor him or the tender smile that infringes upon his face.

What he _does_ notice, however, is the chaste kiss planted on the side of his cheek.

Mike touches the area lightly, but refrains from any verbal acknowledgement. Just as Harvey doesn't say anything about the little grin that lights up the kid's face as he does so.

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**-x-X-x-**

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When Donna returns an hour and a half later, calling out, _"I'm baaack!"_ she is stunned to see a chocolate-drenched Mike bashing the keyboard of Harvey's laptop and repeatedly stabbing the spacebar with grubby, pudding-covered fingers.

"Seems like he's…keeping you on your toes," she comments, not deeming it necessary to hide the curiosity in her tone.

"Oh, we're a busy little bee over here. Been racing around all day, which—aside from all the near-death experiences—I figure is a good thing, right? Means he'll be all tuckered out come naptime."

As she will later learn, Harvey had gifted the peckish toddler with a pudding cup from the break room after quickly becoming frustrated with his tendency to wrench the laptop cord out and drain the battery, without his knowledge.

He'd pierced the sealed container with an effective, puncturing jab of his blunt thumbnail, then promptly forgot all about the plastic spoon in his right hand, preferring to scoop the pudding out and—mostly —into his mouth with his fingers. Some blobs had plummeted onto his and Harvey's laps, while others had been thoroughly massaged into his hair. Harvey, for his part, began to recognise a pattern with all of these 'smearable' substances and their affinity for winding up matted in the kid's blonde locks. (Later, he'll cite that as the moment he started rating foods for Mike-resistance.)

Donna smiles in that annoying _knowing_ way of hers. "So…fun, then?"

"It's like trying to keep an energizer bunny still. You can't keep an energizer bunny still, can you? No, that's just ridiculous. "

"Take him somewhere," she suggests, to his surprise. "Let him burn off some of that bottled-up energy. Otherwise, you're looking at an excruciatingly long afternoon."

"Where would I even go?"

"Umm, you're in the New York, Harvey. You've got a _ton_ of places at your disposal. I mean, I would _pay_ to see you visit Chuck 'E Cheese. However, saying as it's such a sunny day, why don't you just go to the park?"

"Park! Park!" Mike's gaze snaps up, midway through licking the inside of his cup. The lawyer cringes when he wrings his tie in his sticky hand in excitement. "I wanna go park!"

Harvey looks down at him. "You really wanna go to the park?"

"Park!" he cries again, like, _hell, yeah, it's_ **_the park._**

"Fine. But we've gotta get you cleaned up first. There's no way I'm taking you out in public like this."

The next twenty minutes are spent practically bathing Mike from head to toe with baby wipes, before Harvey is charged with the gruelling task of wrestling the forsaken sneakers onto Mike's evasive feet.

"Well, we can't go to the park until we get your shoes on," he reasons for the hundredth time. "Give me your foot."

Mike holds out a hand.

"Very funny," Harvey replies dryly. "Foot," he commands. "Now."

The tot giggles, but complies. Harvey has to swerve to avoid getting accidentally kicked in the face.

"Tan we get ice-cream first?" Mike poses, gazing up at him beseechingly as he jiggles one untucked corner of his shirt that must have come loose at some point during the day's revelry, clutched in one fisted hand.

Less than ten minutes later, Mike is munching happily on a melting ice-cream sandwich, a runny blend of vanilla and spit—and snot, maybe?—trickling down his chin, strolling down the street hand in hand with a totally mystified Harvey, who has no idea how they've gotten to this point.

Mike licks a melted dribble of ice-cream off the back of Harvey's hand—not even being coy about it—and, with a thick white blob on his nose that's a tad too watery to dupe anyone into assuming it's sunscreen, he grins a sticky, cheesy grin up at him

And Harvey doesn't lecture. Doesn't frown.

He grins back.

 _(Oh, God_. _What is happening to him?)_

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_Mike's certainly giving Harvey a run for his money, that's for sure. Poor guy's got his work cut out for him._

_As always, thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think! Stay tuned for more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone's wondering: yes, I did my research and that is the exact make of the model in Harvey's office on the show. What can I say? I like to be thorough ;) Here we have the famous motorcycle in person: 
> 
> [](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/24dab74ea7a4cf08db673650045c81e91_zpsss7ihklp.jpg.html)  
> 
> 
> [](http://s1302.photobucket.com/user/LittleDesertRose/media/Mobile%20Uploads/IMG_20160313_013512_zpsnuuam1yc.jpg.html)  
> 
> 
> Pretty neat, right? What toddler could defend itself against that beauty?


	5. Bite the Bullet

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**CHAPTER FOUR:**

Bite the Bullet

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**A/N:** Sorry for the lack of updates, guys. As some of you may know, my health had taken a turn for the worse and it's only recently I've been writing again. Fingers crossed this was worth the wait.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Mike liberated of the burdens of adulthood is a true sight to behold, indeed.

Under a canopy of cranberry and gold illuminated by the smouldering sun, he snags Harvey's hand and drags him off the beaten track. They trample through brisk, old leaves and Harvey laughs as the toddler kicks them into the air with flailing legs and wild, beautiful, squeals. A squirrel scurries off at the commotion and it's no concern off Mike's—who or what he disturbs. Mike's got hair full of leaves and mud squished into the soles of his shoes. His cheeks hurt from smiling. It doesn't get much better than this.

Then Mike cries, "H'vey, look! Flutterbye!" And he's off like a shot, chasing after some huge-ass butterfly, and legging it back to the trail before Harvey can yell, " _Slow down, dammit!"_

He runs faster.

When the senior partner catches up a minute or two later—factoring in the time it takes for Harvey to bend over and catch his breath—the tot is already up and crawling over the top of a damp, driftwood picnic table, while the butterfly soars up, up and—away. Harvey quickly hoists him down by the armpits and inspects his palms for splinters.

"You… _you_ —" He shakes his head and sucks in a breath. "Mike, you've gotta be more careful." Harvey runs a hand up and down the boy's back and brushes dirt out of his blonde locks, before standing. His hand, however, continues playing with the spiky hair. Harvey tells himself it's to keep the kid from taking off again. "Take your time. You don't want to fall down and scrape your knees, do you? Bet that'd hurt."

He realises how his voice has deepened with concern and snorts. "Besides, we both know what a goddamn klutz you are. I don't want you coming crying to me when you inevitably get knocked on your ass."

"I _wouldn't_ ," Mike scowls, offended, because nothing in life ever comes easy, does it?

"And, well," Harvey carries on as if he hadn't heard him. "I need you to stay close, don't I? I don't know this park as well as you do. We don't all have nifty eidetic memories, remember. What if I get lost without you telling me where to go?"

Mike's expression remains unconvinced, nose wrinkling up and blue orbs peering up at him all doubtful, judging-like. But he agrees. For now.

"Park's dat way," Mike sighs, at length. He stabs the finger not currently being sucked into his mouth out to one side and peeks up at him again. "Dow 'eft," he adds, as if doubting Harvey's ability to follow a straight line.

Harvey smirks. "Thanks, puppy."

In a rare show of affection (though one which is fast becoming commonplace), he ruffles the former associate's hair and shoves down the peculiar feeling tickling his chest.

He gestures gallantly with one hand.

"Lead the way."

Boisterousness aside, what Harvey finds truly astounding, is the toddler's incessant _fascination_. Mike strokes wet moss that has germinated on fallen logs. He pets crusty lichen crawling up the bark from the base of the trunk, yanking his hand away with a startled bark of laughter only to place it back a second later.

He breathes in deep, dragging pulls of moistened air, twirls on dew-covered blades of grass, and tilts his head back to fading grey amid a misty blue sky. A wide smile stretches across his face and Harvey feels a strong tugging of his stomach at the glowing dimples on display.

He's never seen the kid so relaxed. Gazing upon it all in wonder despite having experienced countless fall seasons before.

Mike squats down close to the ground and points out every skittering beetle and busybody ant. His tone is ripe with astonishment as he tugs on Harvey's sleeve for the umpteenth time and marvels, "'Ee, H'vey! Did 'oo see? Look, H'vey, _look!_ A _baaabbbiieee_." Awe-filled, sparkling blue eyes glimmer up at him, wanting nothing more than to share in his discoveries.

Mike giggles and shrieks. He gleefully lunges after the twittering, cheeping birds that hop around the verdant green, pecking at the earthy soil and minding their own business. They don't startle as the youngster stoops down and starts to copy their every movement. Harvey, for his part, fishes out his phone and clicks record on video.

It's less funny when Mike decides to gift him with every stick and stone and dusty acorn he can get his fickin' paws on—to which Harvey must smile and nod and express as much gratitude and enthusiasm as what's come before them. Though, truthfully, he could have done without the lesson in, 'let's see how many sticks we can cram into Harvey's front pockets before they pierce a hole through the lining.'

It's sweet, though. Not that you'd ever hear him admit so.

The boy is once again foraging over by the flames of crimson and orange and speckled brown leaves which float in murky puddles at the fringes of the trail when the hairs on Harvey's arm prickle. Only the sound of rustling acts as forewarning.

Sure enough, not long after, Mike shoots up. The toddler bounces on his knees, jubilant and proud, as he crows, "Look, H'vey! Look, what I's found!" He tosses his head back and beams at the older man.

Which is adorable, yeah? He thought so too.

That is—until Harvey sees what it is, exactly, Mike's got in his hand.

Now. Harvey wouldn't call himself squeamish by any means. But the sight of that pink, wet, writhing worm—dangling from Mike's left hand where he pinches it between index finger and thumb—causes him to jerk to an abrupt halt.

"Mike, what—?"

Standing a safe, five-feet away, Harvey tries his damn hardest to control the impulse to screw up his face in disgust. He doesn't quite succeed.

Harvey is so focused on concealing his reaction - and inwardly applauding himself for his triumph - that he forgets Mike's eyes are trained on his. All of a sudden, a hint of adult-Mike slips through the youngster's features as his lips twist in an impish smirk.

He begins to advance.

"Hey…hey, now. Don't go getting any ideas. Stop right there. Mike, don't—"

Harvey takes a staggered step back (rookie mistake), followed swiftly by another. Until suddenly, he's sprinting away from a delighted two-year old, who chases after him with a shrill cackle and the cutest 'menacing' grin.

He doesn't get far.

Because, really, what options does he have? True, Harvey could outrun the tot without difficulty. But…why would he want to? Not if running means turning his back on a little scoundrel who could land himself in a world of trouble in a heartbeat. Not when he runs the risk of pushing too hard and Mike pushing himself harder; with the odds of the youngster hurting himself, or tripping over excitable feet, or any other number of things getting shot up through the roof. Really, it's just easier for Harvey to allow himself to be hemmed in by the devious little two-year-old.

There is no winning—or escaping—this one. In that, he senses a pattern. Ultimately, no matter how fast he runs or how far away he progresses, Harvey has got to let Mike 'catch' him. (Especially since he's been ensnared since the beginning.)

Crouching down low and bracing himself for impact, the senior partner partially shields his face in the slope of his shoulder. It's no use.

Mike swoops in. Issuing a deep-throated, mischievous chuckle, the little boy breaches—all but _obliterates_ —pretty much all of Harvey's personal boundaries as he shakes the unlucky worm at the exposed areas of skin. They're all fair game.

Harvey laughs and—mostly—fakes a shudder as Mike drapes the slimy critter over the camber of his ear. He exaggerates his disgust, upping the dramatics by throwing out his tongue and hunching his shoulders, drawing them in tight against his body. He's fast realising how much the tot adores his theatrics. " _Ewwwww_. That tickles!"

"Blylck!" Mike giggles. He mimics the older man's contorted expression through fits of devilish snickers.

"Yes," Harvey ardently agrees. He nods his head, fervent. "Yucky yucky yuck. Do you think maybe you could take him back now?"

"Ummm." Mike pretends to consider. "No."

"No?"

"Hims like it 'ere."

"Hm. Is that so?" Harvey quirks a brow. "Tell me, Mr. Worm." He turns to address the pliant creature curling over the lapels of his suit. "Are you having a good time chilling on my shoulder?…Uh-huh….Yeah….Oh, dear. You don't say." He glances at the curious toddler. His forehead creases in concern. "Mr. Worm says he's not feeling too good," Harvey tells him. "I think he might be homesick. We should probably put him back where we found him, whaddya think? I'm sure he has a big family to get back to; who I'm sure are missing him lots and lots right now. Plus—I'm wondering if all that jostling around earlier has something to do with it. That couldn't have been good for him, huh? It's a bit like when you hurt yourself this morning. Do you remember? With the basketball?"

Mike nods, studying the worm in sympathy. He rubs the wounded area at the memory.

"Do you think you could be little more gentle this time?"

"Yeah, will."

"Okay. Well. Say goodbye to Mr. Worm."

"Bye-bye, baby worm." With a shy wave, Mike shuffles his feet and gnaws on his free hand. It's enough to melt the cynical man's heart. "Nice to meet 'oo."

"Do you want to take him, or shall I?"

Mike nods again, which he takes to mean: ' _Sure, Harvey! Lemme take him off your hands. Like hell I'm gonna force you to touch that ugly-ass, half-dead slime ball.'_ He wears a soft expression, deeply serious eyes fastened on Harvey's, awaiting instruction.

"Cup your hands together," Harvey prompts. "Pretend you're holding a little baby bird. That's it. Nice and gentle." He takes the toddler's hands and guides them into position.

Once the worm is settled, he rises to his feet and claps the boy lightly on the back. Harvey squeezes the base of his neck and thumbs the soft ends of his hair. "Okay, pup. Go put him back. You'll take your time, won't you? No running?" At Mike's acquiesce, he ruffles his blonde locks once more. "Good boy."

As Mike trundles back to the shallow puddle from whence the likely deceased worm came, Harvey sets a small, private smile free. He's getting the hang of this.

When the time comes to leave Harvey bundles the toddler inside his coat to protect him from the chill, where Mike squeezes his arms around his neck and burrows down for a quick powernap.

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"I not sitting in a trolley."

This is declared in a hard tone that brooks no argument. God help him, he is not, _not ever_ , sitting in a stinkin' baby seat. Fat chance in hell. Those are for _babies_. Which he is not; nope, not at all. No kiddie carts for him. No way. Never.

For some bizarre reason, instead of sucking down pop tarts for dinner like he suggested, Harvey chose to do the unthinkable:

He goes grocery shopping.

Which, if you have ever _been_ grocery shopping—and Mike's assuming the senior partner has not—then you will know that shopping is, and always has been, a gigantic waste of time. Like, this is why they make home deliveries. Because some lone revolutionary individual sitting around in their underwear decided that they had had enough of lumbering through the high-street with achy feet and nagging lower back pain, in search of the cheapest deals and better prices, and took a stand against the worst chore in the history of first world privilege.

And thank god they did! Now shoppers from across the globe are free to select their cuisine and make inconspicuous purchases safely and discreetly from the comfort of their homes. 24/7 access! Untold convenience! What more could you possibly want? They don't even have to put on pants. Or shoes.

Hear that, Harvey? _No shoes_.

But, no, mister 'it'll-only-take-a-second' decides to completely forgo Mike's warnings and waltz into some godforsaken—though ostentatiously exclusive—store. It's too awful for words.

Shopping is _boring_ and _predictable_ and lasts _forever_. All of this could have easily been avoided had Harvey taken note of his proposal like any sane, equitable human-being. Pop-tarts for breakfast _and_ dinner? Sign him up!

But, alas, here they are. Mike warily eyes the port of parked shopping carts and crosses his arms, a surly pout tarnishing his otherwise saintly features.

"I _not_."

"Fine by me," Harvey shrugs plainly. "We're not getting much. A basket will do." He plucks a black basket with twin handles from the stack by the sliding doors. Grabbing his hand, he pulls Mike in the direction of the fruit and veg section, ignoring his protests. So much for smuggling candy bars and skittles into the basket. This is a goddamn recipe for disaster. Mike's calling it.

Oh. And for future reference?

No, Harvey. You cannot tell Mike you are merely running an 'errand.' No, this does not count as 'popping in for some basics.' That implies gathering necessities like milk and bread and not much else; not harvesting the entire fruit aisle! You can't just _trick_ people like that. It's straight up cruel.

Wonder if Mike made a scene, would he call it quits? Couldn't hurt.

Mike stretches up to tug on Harvey's belt.

"'Aaaarrv' _eeeyyyy_." He inhales sharply and summons his shrillest, most maddening whine from the blackest depths of his soul, set at its highest register. "This boorrrinnnggg."

Harvey doesn't pause in his assessment of a somewhat bruised bag of apples. He lays them back down, lip curled. "What happened to your nice voice?" he tuts, without sparing a glance. "You've got the best nice voice. Much better than that noisy one. It hurts my ears."

Bloody hell. There goes that plan.

"But—"

"Tell you what," he barters. "Since I know you're gonna work really hard to put your nice voice to good use, I'll let you pick _one_ fruit. Go on. Take a good look around; see what catches your eye."

 _Ugh._ Fine. Harvey wants to treat him like a child? Fine by him. His funeral. Mike's no amateur.

He'll play.

Harvey flings a bag of baby carrots in and glances down to see what Mike's settled on. He agrees to the package of green grapes and six-pack of apples, but puts his foot down with the spiky, Spongebob-inspired pineapple.

"But - but _Spongebob_."

No matter what Harvey says, that is a valid argument.

"While I applaud your enthusiasm, there's no way you'll finish that by yourself and I don't eat it. If you want it that badly, I'll get you a small tin of segments. It's good to see those damn cartoons have had some manner of positive influence on you. I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth."

While the older man browses the fresh produce, the toddler sets his sights on trouble.

He boosts himself up on his tippy-toes and lugs a white cabbage into his arms, then waits for Harvey to notice. As the pre-occupied man turns, Mike prepares himself for a familiar pissy-face and snappy reprimand. But all Harvey does is set aside his heavy basket. He hunkers down next to him and transfers the crisp cabbage into his protection, cradling it in hand. "Careful." He's gentle but firm in his caution. "This is fragile. And much too heavy for a little runt like you. Wanna look at it together?" Harvey turns it over in his hands and smiles over at Mike. He allows the youngster to pore over the pale leafy ball and satiate his curiosity without complaint. His patience is so great Mike can't bring himself to find fault.

He thinks maybe he should call off his mission to drive the man insane. But, as it turns out, Mike needn't bother pretending his behaviour is in any way premeditated. His line of attack is not so much calculated as completely out of his control.

Mike skips and sighs and spins in circles. His youthful body refuses to be stilled.

Harvey seems more amused at Mike's hardship than riled by his restlessness. He tries to include him as much as possible, throwing out questions such as, "Which of these watermelons look best to you?" and, "Strawberries or blueberries?"

It doesn't seem to matter how much of a ruckus he kicks up, Harvey doesn't so much as flinch.

Whatever happened to that oh-so-important reputation he cultivated so diligently? Not so imperative now. Mike sees a few other businessmen raising a brow at them. But Harvey doesn't care. One particular salt-and-pepper haired gentleman gapes at the talented closer and it's safe to assume he knows him personally, if not at a first glance.

"How are you, Judge Palermo?" Harvey acknowledges the gawking man with a near-sneer. "Nice day out, don't you think?" He grabs Mike's hand and tugs. "Come on, Mike. I think we've got everything we need here. Great job. You're being such a good helper."

Then, after what feels like forever, they're ditching the healthy portion of the excursion in favour of exploring the rest of the store. Or so Mike hopes.

Harvey meanders down the aisles. He picks stuff off the shelves on the way and tosses them in before Mike has a chance to approve of them. In goes Cheerios, natural fruit juice, pots of yoghurt, cheddar, lots of lame brown rice and diced veggies type stuff. He also grabs some cleaning agents and dishwashing tablets. Adult stuff. _Boring_ stuff.

Mike drags his feet, head thrown back, and emitting a low, continuous groan.

"Okay, so." Harvey scratches the side of his nose. He contemplates their heaving basket. "Change of plan, kiddo. Looks like we're gonna need that cart, after all."

"'Til not sitting in it," Mike quickly asserts.

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Never said you had to." He lopes back to the entrance and releases Mike's hand in order to wrench a single cart free. He opts not to relocate each individual item. Harvey merely places the basket inside and moves on.

Digging one foot into the tile and twisting it 'round, Mike tips his head to one side and oh-so-casually remarks, "Tan I push?"

Harvey gives a half-shrug. "Have at it, kiddo."

It's a workout just to get his arms elongated enough to grasp the handle bar, but eventually Mike latches on with no intentions of letting go. Not first without dislocating his shoulder, which he recognises is a distinct possibility. It's a sacrifice he might just have to make. The odds are, like, 50/50.

Okay, now to force his legs forward, aaannddd…he's off!

Damn this thing's quick. He's huffing and puffing, stubby little legs pumping just to keep up. Or not roll away with it. He narrowly avoids crashing into a row of canned goods by the skin of his teeth.

The trolley is a helluva lot more difficult to manoeuvre than he pictured it would be. Personally, Mike blames this on a dodgy, jammed front wheel, wibble-wobbling all over the damn place like nobody's business, though his short stature may play a role, maybe.

Mike jerks on Harvey's pants leg to tell him their trolley's defective, go swap it _now_ , but he's busy skimming through the ingredients on a pack of dried mixed fruit. So Mike's stuck with the crummy old, cart that—

 _Yikes_. His neck hurts from this angle.

It isn't until his third near-death incident with a fellow customer—who sure as shit didn't mind going by the cooing pigeon noises she kept making at him—that Harvey's brows slope with worry and he tentatively suggests, "Maybe you should let me take over."

"Nah-uh."

" _Yes_ -uh." He replaces Mike's hands with his own. "Sorry, kiddo. This is a bit more than you can handle." And, just like that, Mike's licence as designated cart-pusher is revoked.

So his steering skills leave little to be desired. So what? Last he heard, steering skills are not the basis of a person's self-worth.

Pouting fiercely, the youngster potters along next to Harvey as he selects a pack of premium ground beef and fits it underneath a box of wholegrain pasta, next to a bag of teeny baby carrots, being careful not to squish their loaf of sliced bread.

Worse, rather than leaving him to his sulking, Harvey demands Mike's _input_. Not too much, mind you. But he wants verbal confirmation that what he's buying is actually going to get eaten. It's only when it dawns on the little boy that Harvey will have full, financial control over what winds up on his plate for the foreseeable future that he sits up and takes notice. Put that organic shit down and stock up on chicken nuggets and French fries, ASAP!

Unfortunately, Harvey only takes about a quarter of his suggestions to heart.

On his side of things, Mike opts for—and thanks to some wobbly-lipped pleading on his part is permitted—pre-packaged waffle mixes, pizza rolls, tater tots, fish sticks, hot dogs, and goldfish crackers. Lots of frozen meals and processed food that Harvey comments amount to 'a typical kid's diet,' which he definitely does not take offence to, because it definitely isn't the same cheap crap he ate before; nope, siree.

For some reason, Mike can't help but steal a glance over his shoulder intermittently, as if to check that Harvey is still there. Hasn't left or something.

Doesn't matter that he's only about two steps ahead and he can hear the trolley rattling from behind—functioning perfectly, he observes, with no small touch of bitterness—Mike can't ignore the squirming worry in his tummy that he could be forsaken at any moment.

He compensates for this by whining. Loudly.

"H'veeeyyyy! Mine's legs sore!"

"Are they?"

"Yeah!"

"That's too bad...Good thing I have the perfect solution."

Without warning, the senior partner whisks Mike into the air and slings him over his shoulder. "C'mere, you." Mike barely has time to process what's happening before Harvey is making quick work of wrangling the squirming, red-faced tot into the carrier seat, which Mike only now realises he purposefully left blank of groceries. Probably anticipating this very moment.

 _"H'vey!"_ he wails in betrayal. _How could he do this to him?_

"Oh, no." Harvey's tone remains even; syrupy sweet. "Did you lose your nice voice again? Do you need a minute to find it?"

"Haaaarrv' _eyyyy."_

Mike stomps a foot. Only for his leg to whoosh through empty air.

 _"Out!_ Wan' out!"

"Oh, dear. Does Mike need help finding his nice voice?" Harvey makes a show of looking around him. Peeking under crinkly packaging and winching up sacks of potatoes to check beneath. "I could have sworn it was around here somewhere. Here. Listen to my voice. See how soft and quiet it is? Try that. Let's see if we can coax your nice voice back again. I like that one so much better."

Mike. flips. _the fuck._ out.

" _Noooohh_!"

He completely falls apart. His body seizes up, then goes limp. He slides down in the seat and tries to slip out the bottom, to not avail. He yanks off one of his shoes and throws it as hard as he can. Which. As it turns out—not so hard, after all.

His throat is raw from screaming.

" _OuuuUUTTT_."

Harvey is unmoved.

"I'm sorry, Mike." He shrugs. "But we have to finish our shopping and I can't carry you. This is the best solution for everyone."

Mike sniffles; turns tragic, watery blue orbs on the level-headed lawyer.

Harvey rolls his eyes and—with much internal debate—surrenders his Smartphone as distraction. Mike's breath hitches. His cries stutter to a halt.

He takes the phone, fingers jerking. Chest jolting with wet hiccups and continuing to emit low, pitiful whimpers, Mike looks from the bright screen to Harvey, down to the cause of his imprisonment, and back up again. He can't decide which is more important: the need for his tantrum—er, appropriate levels of fury, or dazzling, shiny, attractive thing.

Shiny thing wins out.

The sequence of apps and symbols don't make much sense to him. The particulars of their function and meaning get all jumbled up in his brain, but it's bright and colourful and he likes the beep-boop sounds it makes when he smashes the keypad.

So engaged in his distraction as he is, Mike neglects to notice Harvey's slumped shoulders and full-body sigh of relief.

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Harvey knew grocery shopping with a two-year old was not for the faint of heart. He'd opted to go in the quiet of an early evening to reduce stress-levels and avoid crowds of ill-tempered New Yorkers. Cut down the bullshit, minimal fuss. That was the plan, anyway. In, out. Buy some shit. Should be easy, right? Well…no. Not when you have a toddler with you.

It's no surprise Mike started getting fussy.

Tasked with ticking off a long list of provisions, Harvey allowed Mike to drop items into the cart to keep him busy after the novelty of his phone wore off, and tried his best to keep the tot engaged. But there was only so much he could do. Mike made his displeasure perfectly clear from the get-go.

However, they desperately needed groceries. Sure, he could have done it online. Had it delivered tonight. Ideally, he'd be kicking up his feet right now in front of Sportscentre. But they need food _now_. Harvey doesn't have time to sift his way through pages of results, selecting goods with a single click. That would be great if he actually knew what he was looking for. But, alas, he has to see what sort of things Mike will actually go for. He has to get a feel for what a _parent_ shops for. Not a single bachelor.

And if Harvey thinks that Mike has a short attention span now, he would have never gotten him to sit still in front of his laptop to choose which type of cereal or brand of juice he wants from a string of monotonous images.

Hard as it is to believe, this is the lesser of two evils, truly.

Harvey's been waiting for the youngster to crash for a while. His footsteps have been getting clumsier, morphing into an endearing stagger, while his pace slows. It was only a matter of time before he was forced to take charge. He knows Mike wasn't impressed by his actions, but it had to be done.

Once the tantrum dies down, it's not so bad. On the heels of the two-year-old's anger comes crippling fatigue that translates as a strange hyperactivity. For a while, he goes a little slaphappy. Pointing and giggling and prattling on about everything and nothing. The lawyer's short segments of browsing are broken by ' _hmm's_ ,' and, ' _ahh's_ ,' and, ' _oh, reallys?_ ' to prove he's listening to the non-stop chatter.

At some point, Mike starts swinging legs and singing off-key made up songs.

"Awww," an elderly lady coos. Harvey rolls his eyes. Old people really are a special type of predator; seeking out cute babies and tots and hand-knitted clothes to ' _ooh'_ and ' _ahh,'_ and endlessly cluck over.

"How precious. He yours?"

"Y-yeah, yes."

"They're so sweet when they're at that age."

"Oh, yeah. Absolute saint, this one."

"Enjoy it while you can. It goes by so quickly."

She beams once more at Mike before moving along, and Harvey takes hold of the handle once more to journey onwards, only to come into contact with something wet and slimy. "Ugh, _Mike_. Why do you keep _licking_ everything?"

The question's rhetorical—for the most part. Mike's preoccupied leaning over the bars, making grabby motions at the row of Cheerios and whimpering. Exhaling wearily, Harvey flips it over and scans the back. "No artificial colours or preservatives…made with wholegrain…Eh. They'll do." Harvey chucks a box in the cart.

To keep the toddler from getting peckish, he opens a packet of blueberries for him to nosh on. It seems to work. Mike amuses himself bursting them between his teeth and slurping up the juices. But apparently, in the toddler's mind, that particular manoeuvre merely signified that all items within the cart were his for the taking.

Harvey finds a hole poked through the bag of apples. Moments later, he hears a thump as Mike loses interest and discards his gnawed-on loot on the floor. It rolls under a display stand and Harvey has to get down on his hands and knees, in his _twelve-thousand_ dollar suit, to scoop it out. To make matters worse, he straightens to find Mike ploughing through the sack of grapes, slobbering a goddamn fountain's worth of salvia and spitting out the seeds.

Those he plucks up with a tissue.

It's enough to send Harvey's head into a brief tailspin.

But he keeps his composure. Makes a mental note to never buy that variety again—seedless grapes from here on out—and doesn't snap at the difficult two-year-old. Especially, given that, well, he _is_ a two-year-old. And sometimes two-year-olds misbehave. Sometimes they don't even understand they did anything wrong.

Harvey gently explains that in future he should _ask_ before helping himself, or wait until they leave the store to stuff himself silly.

He hears himself saying things like: "Mike, it's not nice to stare," and, "Get your fingers out of your nose. Trust me, there's nothing up there that's that interesting," and wonders how in the world this is his life.

By the time he joins the checkout line's queue, he's exhausted.

Harvey is transferring goods onto the moving belt when Mike starts whining again. Not, like, _in words_. But as a long, drawn-out, cranky sound which causes the young woman working the register to cast a wary glance in their direction. Mike is giving his eyes deep, two-fisted rubs and twisting in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Harvey spots this super floofy, fluffy thing, and he snatches it up and shoves it in the boy's arms as a reflex action. A wolf, he realises belatedly.

"We'll take that, too," he tells the check-out girl.

Mike is so tired he can't resist hugging the plush animal tight and rubbing his cheek against the soft tuffs of fur. His head has sagged to his chest and his lashes are flickering in his effort to stay conscious by the time Harvey has finished bagging.

Having texted Ray earlier to meet him outside, he doesn't have to stress about straining himself. Ray helps him load their haul into the back of his town car as Harvey bounces and hushes a half-awake Mike, who cuddles into his chest and sucks heavily on his thumb.

It's a quiet drive home.

Upon their return to the condo, Harvey carries Mike into his bedroom where he pulls the blinds and blocks out the natural sunlight to create the perfect dark, cosy conditions. He rocks him gently and scoots back on his king-sized bed, lying down guardedly with his elbow tucked beneath his head.

Mike falls asleep stretched out across the senior partner's midsection—face smashed against Harvey's chest, lips puckered, a flab of rosy-pink cheek—as Harvey runs his fingers through his hair, and up and down the length of his back. He hums under his breath and pretends not to notice as half-moons of drool darken his shirt. For a little bit, he finds himself dozing off, too.

It isn't until later when he manages to extract himself and begins to unpack the rest of the groceries that Harvey comes across another browning apple with a single chunk taken out of it.

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Mike stands barefoot, sans pants, munching on dry cereal Harvey poured into a Ziploc bag as he stares up, mesmerized, at the first Iron Man movie playing on the TV. He looks adorable with his mussed bed-hair and rucked-up Hulk shirt that barely brushes his bellybutton.

Several ill-fated Cheerios hop across the floor as Mike pokes them into his slack mouth and misses an average two out of three, never lifting his sparkling gaze from the series of spectacular explosions onscreen. One piece rolls down into the gap formed by a crinkle on his shoulder. Another he accidentally crunches underfoot.

Not that he notices.

Harvey keeps an eye from where he's practising two sets of stomach crunches, followed by another two-minute rep of press-ups. He completed an hour of cardio while Mike napped to make up for missing this morning's workout. Now he's just finishing up.

His stop-watch bleeps, signalling his time is up. Harvey stands, panting softly, and frowns down at himself. He's sweaty and gross, and only now does it become apparent to Harvey what a sticky situation he's put himself in. He should have thought this through. He needs to shower, and, well. What about Mike? He can't exactly leave him unattended. The kid can sniff out danger from a mile away. He'd be courting all kinds of trouble.

It's too much of a gamble.

Resigning himself to his fate, Harvey fires off a text to his favourite redhead and waits.

Mike is still decorating his floor with moist Cheerios and it occurs to Harvey that he should probably provide the pup with something more substantial. "Hey, kiddo?" he calls. "You ready for some proper grub?"

Mike doesn't answer. Only flings out the arm with an empty Ziploc to fill.

"Not what I meant."

Harvey surveys his cupboards. He's not much of a cook, but he's mastered the basics. He does alright. Even so, something quick and easy would be preferable. He's too exhausted to slave over some second-rate dish Mike might not even go for. Until they become comfortable in their respective roles as father and child, Harvey will make a point not to push either of them further than absolutely necessary. After such a huge, life-changing event, there's not point sweating the small stuff. If Mike wants a one-off, crappy TV dinner, who is he to judge?

In the end, Harvey settles on Kraft mac 'n' cheese. He squints at the label on the back; scans the list of ingredients. It wouldn't be his first choice, but there's no denying Mike will enjoy it. He can do this. He can so do this. Just follow the instructions on the box. How hard can it be?

Anyway, you can microwave this shit, right? He weighs up the pros and cons. Mike would probably throw a fit, screeching about, 'crimes against humanity.' However, it's idea of cleaning slimy gunk out of his premium appliance in the event of any miscalculations that clinches it for him. Probably best to heat it in a pan. Just in case. Worst comes to the worst, it sticks to the bottom. What can you do?

He fills a saucepan and boils the water while measuring out the butter and milk. Once hot enough, he tips in the hard shells with a clatter where they bubble at a medium-heat. Leaving them to soften, Harvey takes out two forks and a couple of bowls and places them on the counter, before he drains the pot and melts in the butter. Only then does he add the cheesy packet of sauce and drizzle in the milk, continuing to stir as the sauce thickens.

Alongside this the senior partner manages to fry several cocktail sausages. Kid needs protein, doesn't he? This meal should have some nutritional benefits. Otherwise, he'll have Donna bitching at him, and Lord knows, she has enough ammunition to last a lifetime. No need to make it any easier for her.

Before serving, he takes care to cut the sausages into tiny 'safe' chunks. Harvey very much doubts Mike is going to go and do something as absurd as _choke_ on the drab, processed swine. But Donna insisted, so—

"Mike! Come wash your hands before dinner."

It takes several more yells, plus Harvey physically escorting him to the kitchen sink where he helped the tot soap up, before depositing him onto the stool, for him to accomplish anything.

Mike tucks in with gusto. Pasta squished between teeth and already miraculously mashed in his hair, Harvey wrinkles his face in disgust as Mike happily hums to himself and shovels the narrow, elbow-shaped tubes into his mouth with his bare hands, chomping inaccurately. He pops a podgy, little yellow-coated fist in his mouth and sucks it off. Soon after, he lifts up his arm and licks off creamy sauce.

It's both mesmerizing and gruesome. Harvey can't tear his eyes away.

Then Mike takes a stab at the sausage, which turns out to be 'too hot' and 'too big,' and all kinds of traumatising for the youngster. (Harvey inwardly snorts. There isn't even steam rising from the goddamn minuscule thing.)

He spits it out onto Harvey's hand.

Mike grins. "All done!" he chips, happy now that the danger has passed. He's eaten no more than two thirds, the rest of the sausage having been condemned to the floor. He picks up the sippy cup of apple juice and tips it back, suckling insatiably from the teat.

Harvey's skin crawls.

He scrapes off the blob of half-masticated meat and shudders. Hard. He's in the process of disinfecting his hands for the fiftieth time that day when he hears:

"Harvey…" Donna sounds amused and incredulous in equal measure. "Should he be wearing his dinner?"

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_Thanks for reading._

_Can't promise I'll have a swift update. Depends really on the response. It might be kept on the backburner, waiting for inspiration to strike._

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt? Just wanna say hi? Hit me up at my newly-created blog on [tumblr](http://freetoagoodhome-giggles96.tumblr.com).


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